


Pains of Love

by Une_Fleur_De_Lys



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aramis is a good friend, Canon-Typical Injuries, Canon-Typical Violence, Cherrypicking what parts of canon we want to keep, Enemies to Lovers, Found Family, Lucien can have a little love, M/M, Mentions of Alchoholism, and what parts we want to ignore, as a treat, consent issues but no actual dubcon, in this house we don't talk about kinks we stumble upon them and go for it, mentions of period-typical homophobia, some BDSM themes, some D/s themes, very under-negociated kinks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:00:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 98,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24261724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Une_Fleur_De_Lys/pseuds/Une_Fleur_De_Lys
Summary: "What were you, before you were this?" Athos whispers, an undetermined lapse of time later.There's a pause long enough to make him wonder if Grimaud is even still there."Nothing," the answer finally comes."What did you want to be, then," Athos amends, sounding neutral. Something must have happened to make Grimaud like this, that much he knows. He doesn't harbor hopes of changing or even befriending him, but he wants to know."Powerful," Grimaud answers, his head back, eyes closed.Rewriting season three with an Athos/Grimaud spin, exploring the dynamics between the two characters.
Relationships: Athos | Comte de la Fère/Grimaud, Lucien Grimaud / Athos | Comte de la Fère
Comments: 112
Kudos: 66





	1. Fog of War

_Pains of love be sweeter far_

_Than all other pleasures are._

John Dryden

Atop a hill, Athos's horse comes to a stop and he lets it catch its breath, narrowing his eyes against the red glow of the setting sun. He's ridden all day, hard enough to leave his thighs and back sore and his horse winded, the poor animal letting his head hang low as Athos surveys the horizon. They both need a break and it would be reckless to ride through dangerous woods at night with a frazzled horse.

The documents tucked into his doublet are time-sensitive -Treville had insisted - but as long as the order is given to the troops before the end of the week, there will be no issue. Athos sighs as he spurs the horse on to a slow canter. 

He is sick of the war. He will fight again if needed, as it is his duty, but the conflict is clearly going nowhere. Soldiers are getting butchered on both sides because their Kings seem to simply have nothing better to do. It would be ridiculous, if it weren't quite so revolting. He keeps that thought to himself still, as it is not his place to comment on Louis' disastrous political choices.

Just as the sun disappears behind the treetops, he spots an inn on the outskirts of the small city he is nearing. It will do.

***

This war is about Kings being ignorant and idiotic, it's true, but wars have always been about power.

Lucien Grimaud has learned this the hard way. And in learning, he's found ways to exploit it. To find a place for himself, not as a cog, but a key. If everyone dies and he lives and has a few more pieces of gold in his pockets, then the balance is fine.

That is what brings him to this dank inn in the middle of nowhere between Paris and the Spanish border. Tomorrow, he'll ride to the front and extract money from the French general - the new French general. For now, he's warm, he's dry and he has had enough wine to ease the ever-present stress in his shoulders, if only for a while.

When someone comes in, he looks up - a habit - staying hidden in the shadows of a seat near the back of the room. The first thing he sees is the fleur-de-lis. He pulls his knife from its sheath, holding it in his lap.

Stepping into the dimly-lit room, Athos doesn't see the figure hiding in the shadows. He narrows his eyes against the smoke of the fire and does a quick sweep of the people inside, assessing potential threats. Musketeers sometimes draw the wrong kind of attention, especially when not moving in groups. 

There are several farmers playing cards by the fire and a few other men drinking or eating alone. Some glance up to watch him, mostly looking wary. He catches a hint of animosity from the farmers but they don't look like they will actually come and bother him. 

He makes his way to the counter and orders a cheap meal and a bottle of wine, not putting his back to the room as he waits, his hat low on his eyes. The waitress gestures for him to sit by a dusty window and brings him food and wine. He asks for a room for the night, and for his horse to be taken in and she nods, sending the stable-boy out. After that, he proceeds to make himself unobtrusive, eating and drinking slowly.

His movements draw Grimaud's attention, perhaps unsurprisingly; Grimaud knows that slow weariness - he sees that fatigue. It allows him an advantage if he wants it and he's not averse to taking advantage anywhere there is one to be taken.

After a moment, his own food picked over enough, he stands. Taking a chance, he gets another flagon of wine from the innkeeper and takes it to the table of the Musketeer. "You were on the front," he says, intentionally softening his features; no fear and no suspicion here.

Athos looks up slowly, eyeing this man from under the rim of his hat. He's not a soldier, that much is clear in the way he is dressed, and his face is innocuous enough, though there is unmistakable steel in the line of his shoulders, and Athos can catch a glimpse of several weapons at his belt.

He tilts his head in a slow nod, confirming it. He is neither ashamed nor proud of it. He doesn't seem hostile or irritated by the question, but he doesn't ask anything in return.

"That's the least I could do, since you're fighting for us," Grimaud says as he sets the wine on the table, playing the sycophant to see what it brings. If nothing, then, he'll move on. 

"That is generous of you," Athos answers, his voice low and quiet. A little suspiciously so, even, enough to make him curious. "And unnecessary," he adds, non-confrontationally.

"Do you think it will end soon? The war," Grimaud asks, sounding hopeful though he is not. The war is as good a way as any of making money.

"I cannot tell," Athos replies, honestly enough. The truth is that it could, if the King knew how to handle it. But Athos does not, obviously, say so. "Both armies have come to a stalemate."

Grimaud doesn’t react, beyond saying, "well, I hope you can rest tonight. It seems you need it." 

It doesn't take much to grow suspicious; Athos's eyebrows arch faintly. The man seems overly concerned with his well-being, for a stranger. "Likewise," he answers, pointedly. "Are you traveling for business? The roads are unsafe."

"I was visiting ... family," Grimaud says, already turning back toward his table and, perhaps, the stables. "Good night," he adds, ducking his head just a bit and turning away.

That's a terrible lie but Athos doesn't press it, looking at the bottle on the table and then back to Grimaud, only to find that the man disappeared. He ends up drinking the bottle of wine he was so generously gifted and finishing his meal before he heads upstairs, undressing just enough to be able to sleep comfortably, his sword and daggers next to him and his pistol loaded on the table. Despite the two bottles of wine he has drunk, he will sleep lightly enough, on the watch.

There is a shadow that passes by his door a few times that night and it wakes Athos up. He watches the faint light coming from under the door, reaching for his musket. His door isn't breached however and Athos manages to fall back asleep, his musket by his side. 

Morning finds Grimaud in the stables, rubbing dried blood from his doublet. He looks up when he hears footfalls come closer, only his eyes moving as his face remains in the shadow of his hood. Athos stands before him with his eyes narrowed and his hand on his musket. 

Looking at the flakes of blood raining down to the floor, Athos wonders if the man went hunting or if it is something far more sinister. "Where are you headed?" he inquires slowly, his voice calm and cool.

With his head down, Grimaud can keep his expression to himself. "Douai," he lies, leaving Athos unimpressed. He's on a mission still, and alone in the middle of nowhere, so he won't push the matter.

“Douai,” he repeats, pointedly. He will remember this. That's not where Athos is headed still and he merely nods, heading for his horse and getting ready to leave. He won’t turn back to watch Grimaud, but he will make sure to keep him in his line of sight. 

As Athos rides on, he inexplicably feels the weight of dark eyes on the back of his head. He stops for lunch, his musket next to him, and has to stop himself from using his spyglass to look around. He knows there is no-one here with him, and yet he can’t quite shake the feeling that he is being watched. 

Finally, he gets back on his horse, pushing it faster for the last leg of the journey. He delivers the message and has to spend a few days on the battlefield, waiting for the answer.

***

While Athos is on the front, Grimaud is in Paris. He tightens his hold on Feron, he makes sure his funds are in place. He manipulates Marcheaux, keeping all his pieces in play. He learns that the Musketeers are an annoyance, but nothing more than that. 

He's smoke. He's fog. He's nothing and everything.

His influence grows. That is what Grimaud does; he prepares himself for the power that is coming his way. When Athos returns, Grimaud sees him here and there, always from a distance or the shadows. He's heard a story: that Athos used to drink and drink heavily. So, Grimaud shadows the inns. He doesn't see Athos, though. Not that he cares. It doesn't really matter. Except that there's something about Athos that interests Grimaud. 

So, one evening, he sees Athos coming in his direction on the street and as he ducks out of the way to watch the Musketeer pass, Grimaud starts to follow him. It doesn’t take long to notice that Athos is looser at the moment, less aware than he usually is. 

Athos has shared two bottles of wine with Porthos for dinner and it takes him some time to notice he's being followed. That, and the man doing it is remarkably good at it. In fact, it’s only when Grimaud steps into a dark alley and is promptly ambushed by a petty thief that Athos hears the scuffle of steps behind him, turning left sharply and leaning against the nearest wall, waiting to see what will emerge from the alley a safe distance away. 

When Grimaud steps into the street, Athos's arquebus is up and aimed at his chest. It's too dark to make out this man’s features, but he’s quite obviously been following Athos, and that cannot stand. "Reckless, trying to rob a Musketeer," he drawls, wryly.

In the light, Grimaud's chin is up, defiant. There is blood on his doublet again, just like last time Athos saw him. "So, it's better to rob an ordinary citizen of Paris, is it?" he asks, tone bitter. "To take more than we already have to give?"

"No," Athos answers immediately, glaring. "It is much worse. But your chances of getting shot are significantly lower." His eyebrows go up when he recognises the man. "How's your family in Douai, then?" he asks, wryly.

"They barely have enough to eat," Grimaud says of his fictional family, staring, hand on the butt of his pistol. "That's why I'm here."

Athos isn't sure he believes that. The coincidence seems too unlikely. He gestures with his musket for Grimaud to take his hand off his pistol. "And you've turned to crime, because what they need at the moment is obviously to see you in prison."

Grimaud's glare could cut glass. "You think I'm the thief," he sneers. "Someone just attempted to rob me. I wasn't taking anything from anyone." 

Athos seems unconvinced. It might very well be true, and still the main question remains. "Then why are you following me?" he inquires, his tone flat.

Looking around with disbelief, Grimaud then settles his gaze back on Athos. "How do you even know I was?" he asks, taking a few steps forward in direct challenge. "What if I just happened to be crossing this street as so many others are. Are you really that arrogant, Musketeer, that you think a chance meeting is me following you?"

"I can tell when someone is following me," Athos answers, his voice steely. He's not buying any of your lies, Grimaud. "Twice now, since we met at the inn." He's reaching on the first one, as he's not sure the man followed him when he rode to deliver the letter, but this is too great a coincidence to pass on.

"And clearly you have a greater sense of your importance than anyone else does," Grimaud mutters, tired and wishing for a bath. He would rather just kill Athos and be done with it, but the street is too busy this time of the evening. "Go on your way, Musketeer."

"What is your name?" Athos inquires instead, dropping his previous line of inquiry as it yields no result.

Grimaud looks long-suffering of fools in this way only he can master, and then his eyes flick to Athos. "Lucien," he says, not giving Athos his last name. That will make him harder to find. "And yours?" he asks in exaggerated, hostile politeness.

"You know what my name is," Athos answers, seemingly unconvinced by Grimaud's attempt at appearing annoyed with him. "Now be on your way." He arches his eyebrows meaningfully. "And don't come after me again."

Grimaud steps back in the shadows with a scowl and all this encounter has done is strengthen his resolve to come for Athos. He will take down the Captain of the Musketeers, and be done with him once and for all.

***

Athos has a busy week. Coming home from the front, he’d expected that being back in Paris would be a relief, and hard-won respite after years spent on the battlefield. 

It is not so. 

He learns about Feron, about Marcheaux and the Red Guard. He also learns about Feron’s mysterious right-hand man, whose influence grows daily though they never seem to be able to catch him doing anything. Or to catch him at all. The man is like smoke, everywhere and nowhere at once. Athos is beginning to think that this might be the work of several men, actually. A single man cannot cause this much damage without being caught.

The next week finds him weary and retiring early, reading by the light of a candle. He’s stripped out of his uniform, and all of his weapons are clean and shelved for the night, except for the dagger that sleeps under his pillow. 

This is the night Grimaud chooses to creep in the shadows toward Athos's lodgings, knife in hand. He sees light coming from under Athos's door and flattens himself against the wall, fellow with the darkness. 

Finally, when he sees the candlelight flicker out, he still waits for nearly an hour before he reaches for the door, checking for a lock before sliding his knifeblade in to lift said lock. Slowly - slowly - slowly. When he feels the door give he will push it open carefully, inch by inch to avoid creaking.

There is a dull glint of his blade as he moves closer, unsure of where the floor creaks. It takes time, but he will not rush this. He is relishing what will come next. 

That’s when Athos wakes abruptly, his stomach twisting. He stays perfectly still on the bed, his eyes closed. He doesn't know what woke him up -his room is as quiet as the Garrison ever is- but there is an awful feeling of dread and unease in the pit of his stomach, the sharp knowledge that something is wrong. He opens his eyes to darkness and listens, keeping his breathing slow and steady.

Grimaud lifts his knife as he steps closer and swings, taken by surprise when Athos rolls away from it on the bed, reaching for his dagger and slashing it towards his assailant blindly. It causes Grimaud to jump back, scowling as he realises that he’s in for a fight. He pulls his blade up again from where it lodged in the filling of Athos's mattress and lunges again but Athos has moved, going around the bed in the familiar layout of his room and managing to glance his blade just under Grimaud’s chin, nicking the skin open and making Grimaud growl. Any deeper and it would have been fatal.

It doesn’t slow Grimaud much but enough for Athos to duck and aim for his thigh instead, feeling his blade go deeply into the other man’s leg. This time Grimaud hisses and strikes back, cutting at Athos's exposed shoulder. He can feel blood running down his leg at an alarming rate and he knows he needs to get away while he can before he passes out or treats the wound.

He stumbles as he turns around and falls to the floor, crawling back to his hands and knees and towards the door.

But Athos is there to press his advantage, blinding groping for the assassin's hair and smacking his forehead against the ground, hard enough to knock Grimaud out cold, leaving him sprawled and bleeding on the floor.

Reeling back, Athos hastily lights a candle, taking quick stock of his own injury and pressing a clean cloth to it before he heads back to the assassin lying on his floor. He rolls the man on his back and sighs. _Right_. Lucien from Douai. Of course.

He’s alive and bleeding profusely as Athos sets out to tie him to the sturdy leg of his bed, dragging him across the floor and divesting him of his daggers. Then, after a minute of consideration, he’ll check Grimaud’s wounds as well, inspecting the shallow cut under his chin and deciding that he would (probably) live.

The wound in his leg is more concerning and Athos is in the process of locating a needle to stitch it when Grimaud comes to his senses with a start, jerking at his restraints, trying to get free and glancing around for his weapons. 

They are here, and well out of reach. Athos steps closer, giving the assassin a cool glare as he threads the needle. 

"You need stitches," he states bluntly, stepping closer. "You've lost a lot of blood already."

Grimaud says nothing. He stays still, his breathing uneven, and watches the Musketeer come closer. 

Staring back, Athos crouches closer, pinning Grimaud’s ankles down with his knees and inspecting the wound in his leg. It's mostly stopped bleeding but it's deep, and dirty. He peels the fabric of Grimaud's trousers away and pours a good measure of the strongest alcohol he could find in his room directly into the open wound.

The sound Grimaud makes is deep and guttural, pain showing plainly on his face. But he is still, muscles tense. Oh, Athos will pay for this.

“Don’t move," Athos tells him, his voice gruff. Stitches aren't his speciality but he does a decent job of it, carefully pulling the lips of the wound back together. It hurts so much the pain of it wants to lull Grimaud back into unconsciousness, but he fights it; fights back against it, watching Athos.

"Why're you doin' this?" he asks, voice low and rough.

Athos examines the wound, deeming the stitches acceptable. He bandages it with a strip of clean fabric, his eyes snapping back to Grimaud’s at the question. "I want to know," he states, quietly though there is steel in his voice, which Grimaud assumes is a prelude to his death.

"Who are you?" Athos asks, standing up carefully. "And don't say poor Lucien from Douai, or I'll disinfect you again," he threatens, holding the bottle up. It’s still half full. 

"I didn't lie to you," Grimaud says, nearly openly hostile. "My name is Lucien." A pause and he says, "Lucien Grimaud."

Athos's eyes narrow sharply. He's heard the name before, whispered here and there, and once, from Treville. "You work for Feron," he states, dangerously.

There's just that slightest bit of smirk that comes with that comment. "That's one way to put it," he replies dryly. It can be said Feron works for him.

"Did he send you here tonight?" Athos asks, ignoring the smirk and the tone of Grimaud's voice.

Meeting Athos's gaze head-on without blinking, Grimaud arches a brow. "He does not understand the threat you are," he answers. "He doesn't always see the world for how it is."

Athos snorts. "That's an understatement." Feron is a good politician but a very poor governor. "So you took it upon yourself. Why?" Surely there are other threats to consider.

Why does Grimaud do anything? He tries to see the big picture for himself. What can he gain? Athos poses a threat to what Grimaud wants.

Here, in the dark in this strange moment, he is honest. "You are good," he says, the sneer obvious in his voice. "You support the King in his ignorance. He doesn't care for those who starve, or have no place to live. Your loyalty is killing the poor, Athos the Musketeer."

Athos's eyebrows furrow before he schools his expression back into something neutral. He does not necessarily disagree - Louis has been erratic lately, even more so than the usual - but to say so would be treason.

"And you do?" he challenges, disbelieving.

Malice all but drips from Grimaud's words. "I want a France where the best isn't saved for the small number of aristocrats. The dauphin will have a fête which costs more than the whole of the city has spent on grain. Tell me, Musketeer, do you get to eat the delicacies that the King will have for his son?"

"Watch your words," Athos warns, sternly. "This is treasonous speech. You’d have me believe you mean to achieve equality for all by killing Musketeers and letting Feron thrive?" Feron is even worse than Louis, in his opinion. 

"Feron is a means to an end!" Grimaud all but barks back. 

"I'm sure he would be pleased to know that," Athos comments, because Grimaud is not the only one who can play dirty. If this information can be used against him, Athos will not hesitate. He considers the man lying on his bloody floor. "Musketeers are not the enemy of the people." 

"You do what the King asks.” At least Grimaud isn't a dog that follows orders. "Often without question." 

"I do what Treville asks," Athos mitigates. "He questions. It is not my place to." 

There is truth to what Grimaud is saying, Athos knows. Louis' orders are often unfair, but Athos is confident in the fact that they try to make the best of them, whenever possible. "The Musketeers were at war for years, protecting the country, while Feron led this city to corruption and ruin.

Grimaud doesn't so much smirk as sneer. This allows him to hide in the moral decay. "You'll see, Musketeer." If Athos lives to see. A wave of pain washes over him again and he grits his teeth. "What will you do with me now?"

"What is my duty to do," Athos answers sombrely. He doesn't think he'll get much more information from the man, and is unwilling to torture him. Keeping his eyes on Grimaud, he goes to the door and calls for the Musketeers patrolling in the yard. Grimaud will be entrusted to the Royal prisons, and Treville informed at once.

This is most definitely not how Grimaud saw the evening going, but it’s easy enough to bribe a Louvres guard and get out before the sun even rises. It isn't as if Feron wouldn't have freed him anyway. 

He is soon on his way, limping slightly from the wound that Athos gave him. There will be hell to pay for this, Musketeer. 


	2. Under Attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos doesn't trust Grimaud but more soldiers are coming and whatever Grimaud decides to do with him can't be worse than being taken prisoner by the Spanish army.

For the next few weeks, Athos hears suspiciously little about Grimaud. There are no more attacks, no intrusions at the Garrison, no rumours about Feron’s right-hand man puppeteering Parisians from the shadows. And yet, everywhere Athos goes, he feels watched, the shadows breathing down his neck every time he steers a little too close. 

It's unnerving, to say the least. Athos wonders whether he is going mad or whether Grimaud is indeed following him, waiting for him to lower his guard to attack.

Life goes on, still, and the Musketeers continue to fight against Feron, the Red Guard and Gaston. On a particularly perilous mission, Athos dislocates his shoulder tumbling with two Spanish spies down a small ravine. He knows the other Musketeers will come for him soon enough so he doesn't worry too much, trying to breathe through the pain as he sits back against a tree.

He hears Grimaud before he sees him.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk, Musketeer," the man all but purrs before he appears from behind a tree, his hood up, eyes hidden. "You need to set that shoulder."

Athos grapples for his musket, aiming it at Grimaud with his left hand. He's reasonably sure he could hit him, even like this. "I should have left you to bleed on my floor," he hisses in reply, pain and anger twisting his features.

"But you didn't," Grimaud says, moving closer unerringly. "I'm going to set your shoulder," he informs Athos. "And you're going to thank me."

"I'm going to shoot you between the eyes," Athos corrects, snarling. "And thank myself."

Grimaud keeps moving forward. Athos doesn't shoot. He snarls and holds his musket up, pressing it under Grimaud's jaw when he leans in to help him, his finger on the trigger.

With a smirk, Grimaud grasps Athos's arm, twisting it in a deceptively gentle motion. One - two - three - he shoves the shoulder back into its joint, hips rocking forward with the effort of it.

Athos doesn't fight him though every fiber of his body rebels at letting Grimaud handle his injured arm. He grits his teeth against the scream building in the back of his throat, removing his finger from the trigger at the last second, wary that he would shoot without meaning to. It hurts even more to set his shoulder than it did to dislocate it and he can't help the low, pained noise that escapes him. 

As he pants through the pain, he meets Grimaud’s eyes, too close for comfort. Grimaud stays there for a moment, before taking one step back, perhaps waiting for thanks. But Athos says nothing, as he would honestly rather dislocate that same shoulder again himself than show Grimaud any gratitude. He glares but doesn't raise his musket back up, rolling his shoulder carefully. "What are you doing here?" he demands, eyes narrowing. "Don't you have better things to do than follow me around?"

"The world is only so big, Musketeer, and our interests are similar," Grimaud says, rolling his eyes. Before he can do anything else, though, he hears the hum of musketballs being fired in their direction and he dives for the ground. 

Athos follows in a jerky movement, trying to mind his shoulder. He rolls behind a tree and pushes himself up to his feet, aiming at the Spanish soldiers coming after them. His shoulder screams at him but he grits his teeth and shoots, bringing one of them down.

Quickly enough, Grimaud fires as well. This is when he would normally disappear, but he uses Athos's fire as cover, moving back in the direction he came. "This way," he hisses as he reloads. 

Athos hes itates for the briefest moment before he decides to follow. He doesn't trust Grimaud but more soldiers are coming and whatever Grimaud decides to do with him can't be worse than being taken prisoner by the Spanish army. He reloads and gives a curt nod, following and covering for the both of them, shooting again.

There are a few more Spanish soldiers dead before they find their way to a cave. There, ducked behind rocks and greenery, they can take out the last Spaniards who seem to have followed.

When the quiet stretches out for what they know will only be a brief time before reinforcements are sent, Grimaud leans against the wall and directs a mirthless smile at Athos. 

He gets a flat look in answer,  Athos counting the few musketballs he has left and looking into his pouch of gunpowder. He has ammunition, but probably not enough to take out an entire Spanish party.  He leans on his good side, glancing outside the cave with narrowed eyes. 

He can’t see the Spanish soldiers just yet but he can hear them, creeping through the underbrush, looking for them. He glances over to Grimaud, arching his eyebrows when his gaze is met impassively. This may be a temporary truce between them but make no mistake, Athos still intends to bring the man to justice if he can. 

In the meantime, they can load their pistols and ready their blades. The first soldier makes it out of the underbrush and Athos takes aim, silently finding a rhythm so Grimaud can fire while he reloads and vice versa. They make a good team, surprisingly enough, falling into a pattern as easily as Athos would with Aramis or Porthos. 

After a few careless soldiers fall, the others take cover and Grimaud counts another five who have them pinned here. They too will eventually run out of musketballs as well, if he and Athos can wait them out. Then it will be fighting hand to hand. 

A grim satisfaction comes over Grimaud when they’re out of balls. Here they go, then. Grimaud draws a knife in one hand, his sword in his other. Then he arches a brow at Athos, who draws as well with a sigh, gesturing curtly. "After you."

With his teeth bared, Grimaud charges forward. The Spanish have been allies to him more often than foes, but this is about survival. He should separate from the Musketeer, that would make it easier to gain the upper hand, but he’s curiously disinclined to leave just now. 

Having never seen Grimaud fight, Athos can't help but notice how ruthless he is. He doesn't have the time to watch though, as he has two soldiers coming his way with their swords drawn. It takes him a while to knock them both to the ground, narrowly avoiding getting shot by a third. His shoulder is burning and there are more soldiers coming, he thinks. They need to retreat and hide, hoping another regiment does not find them.

Without a word, Grimaud sets out to cover their tracks, doing what he would usually do, dragging away the bodies to distract the oncoming soldiers, erasing footprints and moving brush.

They are hidden quite well by the time he's done.

That's when he looks at Athos, glancing over him.  The Musketeer doesn’t seem to have sustained any new injury, though there is a bruise on his cheek and he holds his right arm tightly to his body once he puts his sword away.  Grimaud himself is wearing some blood, but Athos assumes it is not his own, considering how swiftly he is still moving. 

He almost reaches out to make sure that there is no slash in the leather material of Grimaud’s doublet under the worst of the blood splatter but then there is a  yell nearby and Athos jerks away, stepping back. They have to hurry.

"Go," Grimaud hisses. He'll deal with this. He has the benefit of not wearing a uniform. He can look like anyone. By looking injured and unthreatening, he can knife the Spaniards in the back and steal their weapons. 

Athos does not protest. He goes back to the cave with powder and musketballs he got from the fallen Spanish soldiers, and tries to find a position in which he can load his musket without hurting his shoulder. He'll watch for Grimaud - or, barring that, more Spanish soldiers - intently,  and does feel a little relieved when he sees him creep back to the cave.

He doesn’t ask any questions, the dark glint in Grimaud’s eyes showing well enough what happened to the remaining Spaniards. Instead, he glances back as in the growing murk of sunset, Grimaud leans against the cave wall, watching him.

Grimaud's staring is unnerving and Athos sighs, warily. "What?" he asks after a while of this, unwilling to show just how tired he is.

"Nothing, Musketeer. Rest your shoulder." Grimaud won't sleep, looking out into the darkening night.

Displeased with that answer, Athos does settle against the rough wall, his pistol in his lap. He goes through his pockets and pouches and finds the bread and biscuits an innkeeper gave him earlier that morning. He'll split fairly with Grimaud, handing him his share in a monogrammed handkerchief.

Wary, Grimaud takes what's offered as well as the handkerchief to look at it more closely (and to smell it too) before he hands it back. "You have a title," he observes with a tinge of disbelief.

"Not anymore," Athos answers quietly, chewing on dry bread.

"What does that mean?" Grimaud forgets his food for the moment, staring steadily at Athos.

Athos shrugs and immediately regrets it, rubbing his shoulder. "I gave it up a long time ago."

In the world Grimaud lives in, aristocracy doesn't just give up being aristocracy. He all but sneers. "All to be a Musketeer?"

"Yes." Athos finishes his share of the biscuits, seemingly unconcerned. He doesn’t need to explain himself to Grimaud. 

It’s quiet again between them as Grimaud eats and stares until it gets too dark to see clearly.

There won't be any sleep, at least not for a while, as they both listen for an ambush, silent but for their breathing. 

"What were you, before you were this?" Athos whispers, an undetermined lapse of time later.

There's a pause long enough to make him wonder if Grimaud is even still there.

"Nothing," the answer finally comes. 

"What did you want to be, then," Athos amends, sounding neutral. Something must have happened to make Grimaud like this, that much he knows. He doesn't harbor hopes of changing or even befriending him, but he wants to know.

"Powerful," Grimaud answers, his head back, his eyes closed. 

"Power comes with responsibility," Athos points out after a beat. "Over the people you are meant to rule." That much he knows, and too keenly. 

"Is that why you gave up your title?" Grimaud asks. "Because you didn't want to feel responsible?"

"No. I did not like it, but I would have borne it and ruled to the best of my abilities." That had been what Athos had resolved himself to do, growing up.

"Would you have made sure everyone in your province was fed? That they had a place to live?" 

"I did," Athos states, seriously. "And protected them against thieves and bandits." He sighs, the sound quiet. "It was a difficult task. Being fair is less easy than one might expect."

"When you've known unfairness, it's easy," Grimaud replies flatly. "It's a matter of what's right."

"No," Athos corrects. "It's a matter of what you think, given the circumstances and your knowledge of them, is right. Sometimes, you are wrong."

"How much money did you give up?" 

"I was merely a Count, and my estate was small.” La Fère had been prosperous, but Grimaud doesn't need to know that.

"Most aristocrats brag, carrying their title loudly," Grimaud observes. "You are unique, Musketeer."

"Perhaps," Athos answers, sounding curious. It's an odd compliment coming from an odd man.

Shifting to sit more comfortably, Grimaud breathes out through his nose, letting his eyes close for a moment. "Why aren't you married, Musketeer?"

Athos thinks about his answer very carefully. He could lie or refuse to talk about it. Or he could tell Grimaud the truth and see what he thinks. If he were married to a less dangerous woman, he'd fear for her safety telling Grimaud about her. But as it is, he knows Anne could hold her ground.

"I am," he says, after a beat.

"And what does she think of you being a Musketeer when you could be a comte?"

"I don't know." With all their other arguments, there had never been time for Anne to complain about something so trivial in comparison.

"How don't you know?” Grimaud prods. 

"Perhaps she did mind.” Anne had always liked luxury, after all. "But there were always much more severe matters for us to fight over."

"I haven't often seen or heard of happy marriages."

"Some are," Athos defends. d'Artagnan and Constance come to mind, but he won't bring them  up in that conversation. "You are not married, then," he guesses, curiously.

Athos can't see it, but in the dark Grimaud smiles, an entirely mirthless curving of his mouth.  "Does that surprise you?" he asks.

"I know so little about you," Athos answers. It does not surprise him, but he doesn't presume to guess anything about Grimaud, not with how unpredictable he's proven to be.

With his voice a low drawl, buffeted and disguised by the dark, Grimaud asks, "What do you want to know about me, Musketeer?"

It's strange, but Athos feels that they can talk now, as if the night had disguised their differences. "Where do you come from?"

"Nowhere. From when I was an infant, I had no home. I was raised by various women before I went on my own."

"So Douais was a lie." Athos remembers. "What happened to your family?" There is a great deal of instability in France, but not many have no home to raise their children in.

"I had no father," Grimaud says, ice slicking over his tone. "My mother was used by soldiers. French soldiers. Not cared for and left to birth me and leave me to others."

Athos doesn't say anything for a long time. War brings horror to a country, that much he already knew, but to hear it spoken so plainly is unsettling. "And the women who raised you?" he asks, his tone quiet.

"They, also, were driven from their homes, left to fend for and fight for themselves. By soldiers, by an uncaring King."

"The King does not always realise the impact his decisions have on the people," Athos concedes, quietly. It is well-known, even within the Garrison.

It's almost audible how Grimaud grinds his teeth at such a comment.

"You, Musketeer, were raised never wanting for anything. You are not most of France."

"I have seen the people of France in misery," Athos says, slowly, and it is true. He had not wanted for anything until much later in life. "The war made it worse. Feron made it even worse still."

Rolling his eyes, Grimaud says, "a necessary evil to get what I need. When he is no longer necessary, he will be removed. He's weak." 

"I'm sure the people the Red Guard abuses daily would be relieved to know you think their plight is a necessary evil," Athos answers, wryly. Feron might be weak, but he is cunning, and might very well take Grimaud down with him, should it come to that.

"The Red Guard is what the King wants it to be. If he wanted it to change, he would make that change." Grimaud’s tone begs Athos to argue with him. If the King didn't want them, surely they would be gone ... yes?

And indeed Athos argues, his tone steely. "The Red Guard is what _Feron_ wants it to be. The King trusts Feron like family, and does not know what is being done in his name."

"Then that makes him a very bad king," Grimaud retorts. "If you were King, would you not know what someone else is doing in your name, Musketeer? He doesn't know because he lives in his cushioned, protected world where there is no suffering. It's despicable."

Athos cannot disagree with any of that, for he knows it to be true. He would never openly agree with it still, as it would be treason. "And yet he is our King, chosen by God. What would you do? Kill God's chosen ruler and put another in his stead, hoping a kingslayer might care more about the people?"

"And yet, there are many who would do better by the people of France, to make sure they do not starve." That is all Grimaud will say about this, shifting against the cold rock.

"And there are many who would do worse," Athos points out, but he's tired of arguing about it, too. He leans in to glance outside but it is nowhere near dawn yet. He tries to make himself comfortable as well, stretching his legs.

After another one of those long pauses, Grimaud asks, "your shoulder. How does it feel?"

"I've had worse," Athos states, dryly. It aches and he knows it will sting for a few days, perhaps even weeks, but the pain is manageable since Grimaud set it.

Grimaud smirks in the dark.

Suddenly, though, there's a moment; a rustling of the brush just outside the cave. Grimaud stiffens, listening before he moves swiftly and efficiently.

A raccoon.

He guts it outside the cave, then works to skin it. It's clear that this is something he's done a lot in his days.

Athos watches him in silence, still holding his right arm to his chest. If they light a fire deep in the cave, perhaps it won't be seen from the outside.

When he’s done, Grimaud holds the meat up for Athos to see. "Not like anything the king would eat," he offers.

"I suppose that would depend on how hungry he was," Athos points out, remembering the queen's dreadful cooking. Athos is not hungry enough to eat raw raccoon, but he’ll come closer as Grimaud goes deeper into the cave, stacking up some rocks to work as a barrier of light as well as a kind of cooking surface, before he starts the fire. "You can gather some wood if you wish to eat, Musketeer," he says.

Athos nods and steps outside, foraging for wood. He doesn't go too far away, not meaning to run into Spanish soldiers, and gathers a good amount of dry branches, small and big, which he brings back to the cave.

It takes a while for the embers to warm enough to cook the meat, but Grimaud stays close, hunched over the fire. When the meat is ready, he cuts it with his blade and fetches a bit of salt from a pocket, gesturing Athos closer.

It's not the best meal Athos has ever had, but it's hardly the worst, either. They eat in silence. When the carcass is picked over and the fire damped out, they settle in for what may very well be a long night.

"Good night, Musketeer," Grimaud mutters in the dark. 

The tone of Grimaud's voice is ominous and it makes Athos snort, tilting his hat over his eyes. He'll sleep very lightly, listening for any noise, but he'll sleep nonetheless, his breathing slowing down and the line of his shoulders relaxing.

Just before dawn, Athos will wake up to see Grimaud looming over him. It's only a moment then Grimaud is gone, not to be there when Athos wakes up properly. It's almost as if he wasn't even ever there.

Athos sighs and has a sip of water, standing to stretch his sore body, mindful of his shoulder. With one last glance at the cave, he sets out to look for the others.


	3. Mercenary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You should have come to me sooner, Musketeer," Grimaud says as he opens the door, listening to make sure things are clear before he disappears.
> 
> “I wasn’t sure it was wise,” Athos tells the empty space where Grimaud was standing only a few seconds before. He still isn't. But better the devil you know, he reckons.

It's nearly a month until Athos sees Grimaud again. He still has the odd feeling that he's being watched once in a while, but it's not nearly as recurrent - nor unpleasant - as it was before. He knows it’s entirely possible Grimaud might try to kill him again at some point, but he feels that he knows him better now, knows part of what makes him who he is.

In the end, it's Athos who reaches out. There is a killer in Paris, or perhaps a group of killers, targeting the poor and the elderly to steal whatever they own. It's been going on for weeks now, progressively growing uglier and uglier, and the Musketeers have no leads whatsoever. 

No one seems to know anything, from the nobles at the Louvres to Porthos' friends in the Court of Miracles. After stepping out of yet another scene of carnage with no clue who to even begin to investigate, Athos makes his choice.

He corners a small-time pickpocket at the market, one they've suspected of working for Grimaud before, and slips him a few coins in exchange for telling his boss that Athos wants to speak to him. It may or may not work, but that’s their best shot at the moment. 

He knows that being summoned to meet the Captain of the Musketeers will bring no shortage of amusement to Grimaud. And Athos also knows that Grimaud won't go to the Garrison during the day still, lest it be a trap. Even then, Athos isn't expecting him so quickly and he's sleeping when Grimaud sneaks in, startling awake at the noise of his door shutting a bit more loudly than strictly necessary. He's on his musket at once, aiming it at the dark figure by the door before he recognizes him, sighing through his nose.

Grimaud is smirking as he asks, “what do you want, Musketeer?"

"Couldn't you send a message that you'd meet me at a tavern, like a normal person?" Athos complains, pushing his hair away from his face with a scowl. He sits up in bed, setting the musket back on the table. "I need your help," he answers, bluntly.

Grimaud's teeth flash as he nearly smiles. "What do you need?" 

"Information. You've heard about the murders," Athos states, knowing Grimaud will have. "The poor, the elderly, the defenseless. Butchered, their houses ransacked." He looks away, swallowing his pride. "We've been looking into this for weeks now, and there's nothing. Not a clue." He looks back to Grimaud. "I want to know who's doing this. And you're good at finding out people's secrets."

"And when I find him?" Grimaud asks, tone flat, eyes glinting in the candlelight. "What then?"

"If you are sure, you may do as you wish," Athos answers, somberly. "Bring him here, or handle it yourself." This is highly irregular but Athos is prepared to flaunt the law for once, in the face of such horror.

Leaning back against Athos's door, Grimaud seems to ponder this for a few seconds, before he speaks. “Two conditions: Only you know it was me who did it. And we meet after."

The first condition is expected, and Athos is fully ready to keep that secret to himself. The second is more surprising. Why would Grimaud want to see him after? Still, it is too good a deal to pass upon. "You have my word," he says, tilting his head forward.

"You should have come to me sooner, Musketeer," Grimaud says as he opens the door, listening to make sure things are clear before he disappears.

“I wasn’t sure it was wise,” Athos tells the empty space where Grimaud was standing only a few seconds before. He still isn't. But better the devil you know, he reckons.

At any rate, there isn't time for Athos to regret contacting Grimaud because by sun up, it's done. There is a note slipped under Athos's door, letting him know when to meet and where to find a man hanged in the city center with his heart cut out.

That seems apropos. Athos finds the corpse and feels no regret. From there, it isn't too difficult to find the man's identity and prove that he was, indeed, guilty. Good riddance, he thinks, and the people of Paris seem to agree. He burns the piece of paper after memorizing it, and he is there at the time and place Grimaud specified. He comes in full Musketeer uniform, weapons included, because he only trusts Grimaud so much.

The meeting point is a barn, quiet and cool and secluded. The fact that it is in his home village actually makes Athos somewhat nervous. He's not too eager to have Grimaud poke into his past and find out what happened.

The barn is clean and empty and smells of dry hay. Athos steps in and, as soon as his eyes get used to the gloom, sees that there is a stump set in the middle of the room, with something carefully wrapped in cloth on top of it. He moves closer, pushing the fabric away to reveal a heart, neatly cut out and laid out like a kind of perverse gift. 

"That wasn't necessary," Athos tells the shadows around him, unsure that Grimaud is even here already. 

"I wanted to see it," comes the answer, almost disembodied until Grimaud steps out of the shadows silently. He comes closer, not stopping until their boots nearly touch. "To see if he had one." There is blood under his nails and on his cheek, under the scruff of his beard. The look on his face is as dark as it always is, but with some thoughtfulness, as if he’s surprised Athos actually came. 

Athos doesn’t recoil, hiding his face behind the brim of his hat for a second as he tilts his head forward in acknowledgment. "Thank you. You’ve done the people of Paris a great service." 

"You'll keep your word and not reveal this to anyone." Grimaud won’t acknowledge Athos's gratitude, nor what he said about Parisians. From so close, he lets his eyes wander over Athos's face.

“I have given you my word, I do not intend to perjure myself." Athos glances at the heart, and then back to Grimaud. "What was he like?" He shouldn't ask but he is curious, in an oddly morbid way. They’ve spent months trying to find this man, trying to understand why he was so keen on making the vulnerable suffer. 

"He was a disgusting pervert," Grimaud tells Athos, the words almost like a dark caress. "I think he liked what he was doin'." There's a beat, then he says, "I think he felt pleasure from it." He stares into Athos's eyes, waiting to see his reaction.

Athos's jaw sets at the answer, his eyes narrowing. There's disgust on his face, unmistakably, but that is not all. He feels a stirring of something... unclear in the pit of his stomach, not at the words but at the way Grimaud is saying them. "Then I am glad I asked for your help," he answers, earnestly enough. Despite what he's beginning to suspect it may cost him.

Reaching up, Grimaud grips Athos's hat, pulling it off and tossing it aside. "I felt pleasure too," he says, almost a challenge, "when I killed him."

"He was hardly an innocent." Athos’ voice is barely more than a rumble. He feels exposed without his hat, his hair falling in his eyes. He had not felt pleasure when he’d seen man hang, but he’d felt relief, and the certainty that he had done the right thing.

"There are few innocents left in Paris," Grimaud agrees. Nearly in slow motion, he reaches up, slipping his fingers between the buttons of Athos's doublet. There is plenty of time to stop him but Athos does not, and he holds on.

"More than you would expect," Athos defends. He doesn't count himself among them, but he has seen good people in Paris, and many of them.

He looks into Grimaud's eyes and it strikes him, not for the first time, that they are like wells, so deep no light shimmers in their depths. He catches Grimaud's wrist without thinking about it, holding him still but not pushing him away. What's this, he wonders. 

It's darkness, Grimaud’s eyes beckon. It's a connection when they both know that any such connection will come at a high cost.

The warm hand on his wrist has Grimaud biting down on his lower lip. He leans forward abruptly and both Athos's hands come up in defense because for a split second and against all evidence, he still thinks Grimaud is going to head-butt him. Instead, Grimaud’s mouth crashes into his, almost too harshly to be a kiss, and Athos's eyebrows go up on his forehead, his eyes wide.

He tries to speak but Grimaud keeps biting at his mouth, hot and insistent, and it's good and it hurts and the sudden realization that he is half-hard in his trousers makes his fists tighten on the material of Grimaud's shirt and shove him away. He glowers, his lips red and his eyes almost as dark as Grimaud's, looking dangerous in the dim light, like a cornered animal.

Grimaud smirks as he licks the taste from his mouth, and the look on his face is both cunning and cruel. He isn't a predator so much as a scavenger, Athos thinks, and they are not to be trusted. Grimaud moves forward again, intent now on taking that taste again, and more.

"Don't," Athos growls, his hands still fisted in the leather of Grimaud's doublet, unable to let go. The door isn't locked and Grimaud isn't holding him prisoner but it’s never been in Athos's nature to run, and something about the look on Grimaud's face bolts him to the floor.

Again, Grimaud smiles, his eyes dark. That's not a no, despite Athos's words. It's a yes. It's a _please_. No matter that Athos wants to bite that smile off Grimaud's face with a violence that startles him, he cannot deny that he wants this. He fights against it, fights against Grimaud and fights against himself, taking a stumbling step back and finding himself against the wall, one hand dropping to the dagger at his belt.

"Are you going to stab me, Musketeer?" Grimaud asks, amused and aroused. He plays at putting his hands up. Even in his leather trousers and doublet, his want is clear.

"Stupid way to die," Athos answers angrily, glaring at Grimaud's playful demeanor, at the deceptively harmless way he is holding his hands up. Looking at Grimaud’s bloodied hands comes with the unpleasant realization that he wants them back on his skin. He doesn't draw his dagger, leaning against the wall and watching Grimaud with narrowed eyes, trying to find his bearings.

That translates as surrender. Lightning fast, Grimaud darts forward, pinning Athos to the wall with his body, kissing him hungrily, their hips pressed together. It knocks the wind out of Athos’ lungs for a second and he makes a low, furious noise but then he's kissing back, tilting his head into it and pushing his tongue against Grimaud's, his hands unkind as he grips the nape of his neck.

A shudder goes through Athos' body as he finds himself pinned, Grimaud hot and ruthless against him. Grimaud’s hands are at his trousers already and Athos’ hips cant into the touch of their own volition as he feels him push the layers of closing aside so he can wrap rough fingers around his cock and stroke him, even as they nearly draw blood with their mouths.

It pulls a tight sound from Athos’ mouth, muffled into the kiss. His hips rock into the touch and the pleasure that comes from it feels almost like a betrayal. To let someone like Grimaud lay his hands on him is a taint, he knows, that will not be easily removed. And yet he’s powerless to stop it, powerless against the surge of desire he feels every time Grimaud’s wrist flicks up. 

The idea that he might touch Grimaud in return takes a while to come to Athos but he embraces it when it does, tugging at Grimaud's trousers as well, panting into his mouth.

Grimaud's free hand grips Athos's wrist to stop him. Not yet. His grip is nearly too rough on Athos as he strokes him, looking at him from too close up. "Not until I tell you to," he whispers. It's a challenge and a test for power, and he drinks in each groan, each sound and feeling, even the sticky slick of Athos's precome.

Unprotesting, Athos tilts his chin up, his jaw setting at the words. His eyes are very dark now as he watches Grimaud down his nose, his cheeks flushed and his lips parted. He breathes as quietly as he can, irregular pants, and strives to be silent. His whole body feels coiled tight, an almost painful pleasure building in the cradle of his hips.

There's a pause when Grimaud lets go and licks along his palm, gaze never leaving Athos. It’s a perfunctory gesture - Grimaud’s whole approach to this seems to be perfunctory - but it looks lewd nonetheless and Athos’s eyes follow the movement. There's blood under Grimaud's nails and it should make this repulsive but Athos just wants it more, gripping the front of his doublet again. 

His eyes are hooded and he hisses through clenched teeth when Grimaud starts to stroke him again, almost too fast and almost too slow all at once. It's beginning to hurt but Athos likes it too, likes the reminder of what he is doing, and with whom.

Nosing Athos's head to the side, Grimaud bites at his neck possessively, sucking marks into the skin, teeth glancing along the lobe of his ear. Athos twitches and gasps, acutely aware of the vulnerable position he finds himself in, Grimaud's teeth on his neck and his hand on his cock. It seems to fuel his arousal and soon he can't hold back, breathing harshly against Grimaud's shoulder. "I can't..." he grits out, his voice tight.

With his mouth against Athos's ear, Grimaud whispers, "Come for me."

Athos knows he will damn himself if he does and yet he is powerless not to take the order, his hips bucking. He lets out a quiet groan, hissed between his teeth, the rush of pleasure leaving him light-headed. His knees don't buckle but he leans heavily against the wall, his eyes squeezed shut as he tries to catch his breath.

Grimaud's free hand lands on Athos's cheek almost gently as he strokes him through it. "Don't look away," he murmurs, not needing to order Athos now when he's so weak.

Obeying without thought, Athos strives to open his eyes and look back to Grimaud, his expression questioning. He might be defeated but he's not beaten and there is still challenge in his eyes, a refusal to show shame or regret just yet. He doesn't relax when Grimaud stops stroking him, doesn't relax when the flush of pleasure recedes and leaves him warm and limp

He watches as Grimaud brings his fingers to his lips and licks, tasting Athos and the copper of the dead man's blood in turn. It’s a disgusting sight, Athos thinks. He also really wants to kiss Grimaud again.

With his fingers hooking again in Athos's doublet, Grimaud uses his dirty hand to take Athos's, grunting when he gets it around himself, starting to stroke. "You'll smell me. Taste me. Want me. Wherever you go, Musketeer."

The corner of Athos's lips curls up at the words. Is that what Grimaud wants? To be desired so fervently? "Presumptuous," he states, his voice quiet. He knows he's not fooling Grimaud but he won't lose face, not so easily. 

Grimaud says nothing in return, the look on his face wry. Athos tightens his fist in retaliation, letting Grimaud guide his touch and watching as pleasure hits his face and fails to make it any softer.

When Grimaud comes, it's nearly silently. He shifts Athos's hand to catch it, his teeth gritted, even as he rocks back on his heels. He closes Athos's hand with a smirk, and buttons his fly back up. His eyes never leave the other man's face as then, he does up Athos's as well.

That leaves Athos with a sticky hand and he contemplates licking his palm as Grimaud did, before discarding the idea. He turns his head when Grimaud moves close again, whispering in his ear, "you won't touch yourself again until I tell you to."

It's a strange game and Athos is not sure he wants to play it. There is nothing binding him to this if he does not give his word, but Grimaud’s eyes are magnetic, challenging him to refuse. 

He stares back and he says nothing, his eyebrows furrowed and his mouth set. It would be mad, he thinks, to let Grimaud have this kind of power over him. Agreeing to it also implies that they will be doing this again, which Athos isn't entirely comfortable with either.

For a long moment, Grimaud merely looks at him, his eyebrows arched. Despite Athos’ lack of response he seems to find what he was looking for on the Musketeer’s face and steps back, his lips curling up slightly. He’ll move away without another word, leaving the murderer's heart for Athos as he pulls up his hood and slips out the barn door, not turning around. 

Athos won’t leave at once. He leans back against the wooden wall behind him for a long moment, trying to process the way his body is still shaking with pent-up tension, unnerved. His lower lip feels bruised as he touches it with his tongue carefully, and he _can_ taste Grimaud still, can feel the rough touch of his hands and the cold press of his leather uniform. His neck stings where Grimaud bit him and there is an unsettling heat lingering in the pit of his stomach.

After a while, he pushes himself upright with a sigh, adjusting his clothes and retrieving his hat. He will collect the murderer’s heart and bury it in the countryside before riding back to Paris.


	4. Muddying the Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos wonders, vaguely, if Grimaud will kill him if he doesn't give him what he wants. But, as it turns out, Grimaud doesn't have to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The consent and undernegociated kinks tags apply to this chapter.

After their last startling encounter, Athos doesn't try to avoid Grimaud. It would be a foolish endeavour, as Grimaud is like smoke and you cannot evade someone you cannot predict.

Some days, Athos sees him in the street. Grimaud is good at blending in with the people, but somehow his gaze always unerringly lands on Athos, dark and heated. He stares for a second, holding still, before turning away. 

Some days, Athos doesn’t see Grimaud at all. It leaves him to wonder whether the shudders that go down his spine at random intervals mean he is being watched hotly from the shadows again.

Life goes on. The Musketeers keep investigating Feron, trying to reveal him for the criminal he is. Interestingly enough, Grimaud’s name doesn’t seem to be linked to Feron’s quite as often as it used to. It’s unclear why. 

But under the appearance of normalcy, things have changed. Athos can tell in the way Grimaud stares at him and, more unsettlingly, in the way his body responds to that look as if it were a touch, glancing possessively over his skin. 

Each time it happens, it feels like a betrayal, a slip in his iron-wrought control. So does the way he wakes up hard in the morning, heated dreams heavy on his mind, a confusing mix of sex and death. He doesn't touch himself because that would be acknowledging them, and because he thinks, irrationally, that Grimaud would know.

He wants this and doesn't want this and it's exhausting, especially at night, when there are no duties to distract him from the memories of what transpired between them. 

Then one day, there is a note slipped under the door to Athos's rooms. All it says is __

_ Tonight. _

The single word is like a blow to the chest, Athos’ stomach twisting even as heat gathers in the cradle of his hips. He crumples the wrinkled paper and throws it into the fire. 

He cannot. 

He  _ cannot _ , he tells himself almost desperately.

Thus, when he sneaks into the Garrison that night, Grimaud finds Athos's chambers locked, cold and empty. He knows, though, exactly where to look.

There are far too many taverns in Paris still and by the time Grimaud finds Athos, it’s the middle of the night and the Musketeer has drunk enough wine that he has trouble walking straight. He’s been thrown out into the street and has wandered to a fountain in the middle of a quiet square, his head lolling back as he sits there. His mind is blissfully quiet for once, his senses dulled. He doesn’t even think about Grimaud until the man is right in front of him, glaring daggers. 

"Get up," he grits, looming close enough to make Athos blink up at him, unsure whether Grimaud is truly standing in front of him. There is anger in Grimaud's expression, and something like disappointment. Athos snorts to hide what that makes him feel. "No," he answers, the word barely slurred. "Leave."

"If I leave now, you will pay for it later," Grimaud vows, his voice low and rough, a tone that has turned even the bravest men he's interacted with into cowards. "Is that what you want, Musketeer?"

Athos wonders, vaguely, if Grimaud will kill him if he doesn't give him what he wants. "As opposed to what?" he challenges, trying to sit up straight. "Paying for it now, because I do not wish to play your sordid games?" he bites out, his hands gripping the cool stone of the fountain.

"Don't you?" Grimaud asks, an eyebrow arched. "I think you do. That's why you're making a fool of yourself." He steps back. 

He won't go away entirely still, just out of sight, watching Athos stay at the fountain for a long time, head down, hair hiding his face. 

When dawn begins to break, Athos dunks his head into the water, twice and for an almost alarmingly long time, then gasps into the cool morning hair, combs his hair back, and slowly makes his way to the Garrison.

The next day is difficult. Athos is tired and moody in a way he hasn’t been in years now, garnering a few concerned looks from his friends. He shrugs at their questions and doesn't shirk his duties, returning to the Garrison late in the afternoon. He won't go out that night. He's not sure whether Grimaud will try to visit him again or whether the man has taken this rejection and will now disappear for good. He can’t help but wonder what would be worse.

He doesn’t have to wonder long, however. 

Athos has barely stepped into his rooms that he feels the cool press of a pistol at his back. "Don't make a sound," Grimaud hisses, urging him on so he can get inside and close the door.

Stepping forward, Athos tenses up but he says nothing, even as he hears the door to his rooms shut behind him. He doesn't doubt that Grimaud would shoot if he shouted to alert the others. 

At this range, a musketball would go right through him, allowing them to keep fighting for a while, but it would also almost certainly kill him.

“Look at me,” Grimaud says, and Athos turns around, his hands up. 

Grimaud’s pistol points at Athos’s weapon belt. “Drop your weapons.”

Slowly, Athos reaches down to do so, setting aside his muskets and daggers, and letting his sword fall to the ground. When Grimaud’s pistol points at his chest he unstraps his pauldron too, setting it on the nearby chair, fleur de lys down. 

Grimaud keeps the pistol pointed at his chest even as he pulls a rope from the recesses of his doublet. He tucks one end into his belt, and tosses the rest of it through the rafters. "Good. Now strip, Musketeer, then give me your hands," he orders, his voice gone low and rough.

The words send a shiver down Athos’ spine, dark and hot. He looks up to consider the rope dangling from his rafters, his face closed despite the way his eyes are already hooded. He does nothing for a few seconds and then moves to shrug off his doublet and the padding of his under-armour, baring the large shirt he wears under.

A small smirk paints itself on Grimaud's face as he steps forward, still holding the pistol though he hardly needs it. His eyes are dark on Athos, looking over him like so much property. "Trousers and boots off," he says, his tone laden with dark promise.

The gaze makes Athos feel hot under the collar; it trails over his skin like a brand. He swallows dryly but he doesn't protest, bending to remove his boots and unlace his trousers, setting them on the chair as well. It's easier when he doesn't have to speak, doesn't have to put this into words. 

The chemise hides that he's half-hard in his braies already, but the feeling of arousal pooling at his groin prevents him from being able to pretend he's only doing this because he has to. 

Then Grimaud walks closer and reaches under the shirt to clutch his cock, harsh and knowing, and Athos knows his bluff has been called and that Grimaud can tell just how much he wants this.

Rough hands trail up Athos’ body to grab his hands and bind them in the rope, pulling them up over Athos's head. There is no resistance to this either and Grimaud smirks, tying secure knots around Athos’ wrists. There is beauty to this, to the way Athos folds and complies even though it seems to shame him. It is a perverted kind of beauty, but beauty nonetheless.

The feeling of vulnerability that washes over Athos prompts him to close his eyes, helplessness making him tingle with growing arousal and just a hint of fear. His fingers curl around the rope binding him, tugging. He's not really trying to break free, but he's testing the resistance of the rope nonetheless.

"You won't get relief tonight, Musketeer," Grimaud promises. That's how Athos will pay for not being where he should have been last night. Stepping forward in a blur, he hisses the words in Athos's ear, "but that doesn't mean I won't drive you right to the edge."

Athos tilts his chin up at the words, opening his eyes to glare at Grimaud. It's difficult to retain any pride while he's bound and undressed but he manages it well enough, growing very still when Grimaud suddenly steps close. He turns his head to the side, his jaw against Grimaud's, asking for a kiss. That's his way of saying he agrees.

The request is met, Grimaud's kiss biting and possessive. "Don't run from me," he murmurs, lip to lip. Athos says nothing in response but he kisses back, angry and heated. He leans in to follow when Grimaud steps away, the rope stopping him short. It hurts his recently dislocated shoulder and he rolls it carefully, but doesn't ask to be unbound.

Grimaud takes his time to remove his doublet and set it aside with his weapons, except for his blade, which he holds in his hand loosely as he steps closer again. Athos’ eyes widen and he stays very still, following the blade as it moves to his chest. There is a very real possibility that Grimaud will kill him at some point, he knows, and though it doesn't seem that it will be tonight, it takes some resolve to steel himself and resist the urge to flinch away as the blade is brought to his chest.

The dagger slices through his shirt easily, catching on the seams and severing the lacing at the collar. Grimaud works quickly and steady, nicking Athos’ the skin just barely, drawing a bead of blood; he swipes it away with a finger, tasting it. 

It stings and Athos’ lips part as he watches his blood redden Grimaud’s mouth. He’s pale under his shirt, and there are a lot of scars marring his skin, some rough and jagged, others precisely sewn shut.

They are all traced over. Grimaud is going to take his time now, his rough fingers making goosebumps chase across Athos’ skin. The scars don't hurt anymore but they are oddly sensitive, both more so and less so than the rest of his skin. Grimaud notes the difference between Athos’ scars and the well-tended ones draw his interest, as his own scars are ragged and dark. Athos knows a seamstress, it seems. That will be handy for his chemise.

He doesn’t ask for Athos’ stories and Athos doesn’t volunteer them, his eyes dark as he watches Grimaud step away and undress. He hadn't seen much of Grimaud's skin the last time they did this, and it is almost strange to confirm that he is flesh and blood under the leather, and not smoke and darkness. 

Tossing his blade aside, Grimaud toes off his boots. Then he faces Athos as he unties his trousers and kicks them away. That way, he can stand, rubbing a hand over his own erection. His expression is both a snarl and a smirk, and Athos shifts a little on bare feet, aware that he is, for all intents and purposes, at the mercy of Grimaud's devious mind.

Coming forward again, Grimaud loosens Athos's braies, letting them fall and exposing Athos entirely. It makes Athos swallow dryly, his eyes falling shut for a second. He's not ashamed of his naked body - it's a tool, and it does what is required of it well-enough - but it adds to the feeling of utter vulnerability washing over him, leaving him flushed and almost trembling.

From there, it’s easy for Grimaud to fall to his knees and press his face to Athos's groin, taking in the smell and the taste of him as he grips his ass with rough fingers. It's his own vulnerability to wish to do this. Athos smells like leather, musk and sweat. It is uniquely intoxicating.

He rubs his mouth along the length of Athos's erection and Athos holds himself still for it, his breathing coming out in quiet but irregular pants as he feels Grimaud's hands kneading his ass, the heat of his mouth and the rasp of his beard on his inner thighs. He bites on his lower lip to keep quiet when Grimaud’s tongue licks over him warmly, making him spread his legs, his hips canting into it. 

It should worry him more than it does, Grimaud's hands on his ass and his teeth so close to his cock, but all Athos can feel is need. Need for pleasure and pain alike, anything Grimaud decides to bestow upon him.

And pain there will be, as Grimaud circles his fingers around the base of Athos's cock, squeezing tight enough to make him gasp. Then he starts to suckle, gently at first and then hard, teeth and tongue involved as well. It's not graceful, almost cruel, and he never relents, working Athos ruthlessly. 

It's a heady mix and it sends Athos's mind reeling, his head thrown back, eyes shut and lips parted. He makes as little noise as possible to avoid being overheard but he can't help a few hisses and harsh sighs. What Grimaud is doing feels almost too painful to be enjoyable, and yet Athos's body responds to it violently, heat pooling in his groin as his cock drips, fully hard. 

Grimaud’s fingers are getting bolder too, rubbing and putting pressure where Athos’s body opens, the touch electric. It adds to the deviousness of what they are doing, this ultimate transgression, but still there is no protest from Athos as he tugs at the rope absent-mindedly.

Each time he takes Athos in, Grimaud buries his nose in the hairs around the base of Athos's cock, breathing in that musky, unique scent. He wants to keep that smell. He wants to keep this sensation.

And each time Grimaud does that, Athos makes a low noise, as quiet as he can, a noise that sounds punched out of his chest, rough and breathless. He's growing close alarmingly quickly, desire making him feel heated and over-sensitive already. He remembers Grimaud's promise to offer no release and dreads it a little, hissing when Grimaud pulls back.

Flushed and panting, his mouth already swollen, Grimaud drags his eyes up to Athos's face. Then he levers up to his feet, hand still gripping the base of Athos's cock as he circles behind him, letting his hard cock jut at Athos's ass.

Athos's eyes stay closed, his face flushed and his lips red from where he has bitten them. He tries to catch his breath as Grimaud moves, turning his head blindly to follow the heat coming from him. The sudden press of Grimaud's body behind his doesn't come as a surprise but it makes him tense up, the muscles in his back and thighs locking up.. 

This is happening, he thinks, very clearly. Grimaud is going to fuck him and Athos will let it happen. And most likely, it will hurt. There is no slick here; and he suspects Grimaud didn't bring any. Instead, it will be spit. While Athos isn’t entirely foreign to this he hasn’t indulged in a long time, and he knows it will not make things easier.  This will be harsh, and rough, and Athos will carry both the pain and the memory of it with him in the coming days. 

Grimaud keeps the pressure on Athos's cock, not letting him come, and draws a sigh from him. He spits into his free hand as liberally as he can and rubs that on his cock before nudging himself into that tight hole.

It does hurt. Spit provides little slick and Athos is far too tense for it to be easy. The sensation is unpleasant, intrusive and filthy, oddly over-sensitive already. Athos's fingers are white on the rope and his eyes are squeezed shut but he doesn't make a sound, his cock dripping over Grimaud's fingers. He has brought this upon himself, and intends to ride this through to the bitter end.

The only resistance comes from Athos's body. The hand that isn't on Athos's cock grips his hip almost too tightly, enough to bruise, even as Grimaud rocks his hips. It's not entirely pleasant for him either but he doesn't stop, and eventually Athos’s body gives and he can shove in as deep as he wants.

That draws a gasp from Athos, the sting of it sharp and intense, making him jerk against Grimaud. It hurts more now but it's easier too and he shudders as he can feel Grimaud's hips against his ass, his cock buried deep inside him. The idea is disturbing but part of him finds it arousing, for the taint and debasement it brings. He knows he will feel this for days and it brings a dark sort of satisfaction too, even though the act itself is not pleasurable. 

To Grimaud it is fucking, nothing more than that. He doesn’t try to play elaborate games now, claiming and taking what he can from Athos’ body, moving hard and fast. He keeps a tight grip on Athos's cock, using that to pull him in, to bury himself deeper.

Teeth gritted against the pain, Athos surrenders to it entirely, closing his eyes and letting Grimaud push and pull at him as he wishes. He doesn't enjoy it exactly but there is something pleasing about being used in such a ruthless way. It doesn't last long, Athos shivering as he hears Grimaud’s bitten-back groan of pleasure, trying to catch his breath. 

Grimaud's grip on his cock has kept him hard but the pain has dampened his arousal so he's not close to coming now, sweat cooling on his body, his shoulders and wrists aching where they are bound. 

Pulling out, Grimaud lets go. He uses one of Athos's bedsheets to wipe himself clean and then comes to face Athos again, reaching a hand up to touch his cheek almost gently. Athos's head lolls forward, his eyebrows furrowed, but he opens his eyes, meeting Grimaud’s gaze. 

"You aren't to finish until I tell you to," Grimaud instructs, eyebrows in a V, then he starts to dress.

Athos has nothing to say to that this time and he merely watches, his mind oddly quiet even as he worries Grimaud will be cruel enough to leave him bound as he goes. That would be difficult to explain. 

Thankfully, Grimaud cuts him free once he’s dressed, putting a steadying hand on his elbow as Athos’s knees nearly buckle and helping him to sit on his bed. Both Athos’ shoulders ache now and he has to flex his fingers when he finds them pale and numb, bringing blood back to them. 

He tilts his head back when Grimaud leans in again, opening his mouth to receive a biting kiss. 

"Wait for my word," Grimaud says, a quiet warning, and Athos gives a slow nod to show he will.

There is a moment’s hesitation then, Athos sitting very still and stiff on the bed, his body bruised from Grimaud’s hands and his eyes dark with pent-up desire; and Grimaud standing in front of him unmoving, almost looking like he wants to stay. 

He doesn't, though. He listens at the door, then slips outside into the dark, and is gone.

Athos carefully lets himself pitch down on the bed, lying down face-first, cataloguing the aches Grimaud left him with this time. His ass stings and his shoulders hurt. There are painful marks on his wrists, neck and hips and he's still almost shamefully aroused. Yet he feels calm, almost hollowed out of any feeling. He cleans himself up slowly and gets into bed, face in the pillow, his mind blank.


	5. Sainte Chapelle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stilling, Athos turns his head to glare at him. They're acknowledging it, then. Acknowledging what they do by night in broad daylight, and on duty.

When the sun is well up, there comes a rapping at Athos's door. Aramis looks over to Porthos as he knocks again, eyebrows raised. It's not like Athos to sleep in so late and they are beginning to worry. 

"Athos," Aramis calls. "Are you all right?" He knocks again, trying the handle and finding the door locked. 

Eyes blinking open blearily, Athos lifts his head at the rattle. He goes to answer but his voice cracks and he has to clear his throat before he tries again. "I am. I'll join you for breakfast”. He sits up carefully, feeling sore all over, from his shoulders to his calves. His ass stings every time he moves, in a way he suspects will make riding hell. He's pretty sure he will have to wear a scarf and the longest sleeves he can manage to conceal all the bruises on his body, too.

“In a while,” Athos adds, when it doesn’t seem that Aramis and Porthos are going anywhere.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Aramis asks again, sensing something more. The drunkenness of the night before last, too, had been a concern.

"Yes," Athos answers back, sounding definitive. Aramis meets Porthos's eyes again and Porthos shrugs in response. If Athos says he's all right, he's all right. They make their way back down to the yard as Athos gets up, stretching his shoulders carefully before he kneels down in front of his bucket of water, grabbing the washcloth.

He cleans himself slowly, taking in the many bruises and scratches on his skin. There is dried come and a little blood on his inner thighs and he cleans that away too, suppressing a shiver at the memory. He gets dressed and carefully conceals the bruises and bite marks, slowly making his way out. He doesn't limp as he comes down the wooden stairs and heads for the breakfast table but he seems more careful than usual, sitting down next to Porthos with a huff.

Chewing on a carrot slowly, Porthos watches him. While they've grown closer, he still doesn't necessarily expect Athos to spill his guts. When Aramis arches his eyebrows at him in concern, he gives him another shrug. It’s useless to poke Athos when he’s like this, in his opinion. If he wants to talk about it, he will. If he doesn’t, there’s no use in asking. 

"Anything we should expect today?" Aramis asks after a few minutes of silence, his eyes still watchful. 

Athos steals one of Porthos's carrots to go with the breakfast brought to him, humming at the question. "The usual. Patrolling to make sure the Red Guard isn't up to no good." He sips from his glass, slowly. "Treville wants to see me.”

"Just you?" Porthos asks. Because patrolling is boring, in his not-so-humble opinion.

“Just me,” Athos confirms, with a half smile. 

Buttering some bread, Aramis slides it over to Athos who accepts it with a thankful nod. It could be nothing really, just Treville checking in. Or it could be a mission for all four of them. Athos will have to find out.

"Well, I guess it's you and me patrolling then," Porthos tells Aramis ruefully. He gives Athos a firm slap on the shoulder as he rises; a kind of test and a greeting both. Athos doesn’t flinch, nodding again as Aramis stands as well. “We'll start on the west side if you need us," he says, and Athos takes a bite from his bread. 

"I'll join you when I'm done," he answers, watching with fond eyes as Aramis and Porthos leave side by side, bantering easily as they go. Then, it's back to business, finishing breakfast and riding to the Palace to meet with Treville. Riding, he finds, is a most unpleasant experience in his condition.

Treville greets him in his office. He wants to know whether they found more about the killer who got hanged a few weeks ago. Athos provides no insight, arguing that someone must have taken matters into their own hands, but that they have no knowledge who did. Treville doesn’t prod, as there are more urgent matters on hand. 

Portuguese merchants have been smuggling port into Paris without paying any taxes for it, Treville tells Athos, showing him various letters and documents about it. They have to be caught red-handed and brought to justice.

This has Grimaud’s fingerprints all over it, Athos thinks as he combs through the documents carefully. It reeks of his usual methods, and Athos would bet that if the Portuguese don’t pay any taxes to bring their port into Paris, they do pay someone for safe passage: Grimaud. 

Since this matter was brought up at the King’s Council before it was passed on to Treville, it means Feron knows about it, which then means that Grimaud knows too. The man is already at least one step ahead of them, and the investigation hasn’t even started yet. 

Athos sighs, giving Treville a firm nod. He will look into this, and make sure the Portuguese merchants pay their dues. 

He rides back to Paris and finds Aramis and Porthos, explaining the situation to them in the shade of an oak tree. He leaves Grimaud out of what he tells them, as mentioning him would mean explaining how exactly Athos got to become so familiar with the man’s methods.

He will be on the lookout for Grimaud, still. If this is indeed one of his operations, Athos knows he won’t let it go easily. 

Aramis is sent to make friends with some of the Portuguese sailors and, speaking Spanish, manages to understand that there have been different boats coming into the harbour carrying goods. Conveniently, there isn't any paperwork for any of those boats. It seems strange how absentminded the harbourmaster is, which may come from how well-paid he is to keep forgetting about making the Portuguese merchants fill in the proper forms. 

Aramis passes that on to Athos and Porthos, filling d’Artagnan in when he joins them.

Soon they’re at the docks again, hiding a little distance away as they watch the Portuguese sailors pile crate after crate of port on the pavement. They're waiting for the opportune moment to strike when the Red Guard comes blundering in, pistols blazing. Athos glances at the others and they jump into the fray, protecting the unsuspecting civilians still working in the street.

"How did they know?!" Aramis asks as he draws his blades, trying to keep the Red Guard at bay as well as keep an eye on the Portuguese.

 _How_ indeed, Athos wonders, wryly.

d'Artagnan pulls his sword from where he'd had to stick it in a man's chest and shakes his head. As usual, the Red Guard are only making things worse. Athos fights just as hard as he always does despite the soreness in his muscles, adrenaline making it easier to move, dodging blows and dealing sharp slashes of his sword to push the Red Guard back.

t's a mess, still, the Red Guard creating a diversion that is allowing the Portuguese to escape. Well, the ones that are still alive, as there seems to be a surprising amount of dead sailors on the boat already.

From where he watches a block away, Grimaud snarls. He’s barely visible in the shadow of a derelict warehouse and yet as he turns, manages to catch Athos’s eye. He doesn’t linger, moving away quickly on foot.

Is there a single nefarious ploy in Paris Grimaud is not involved in? Athos wonders, as the fight starts to die down. He leaves Aramis and Porthos to cross the gangplank on to the ship to see if there is anything or anyone else to find, stepping away to investigate the familiar hooded figure. 

He steps along a narrow street, his musket up, senses in alert. He's not sure what he'll do with Grimaud if he catches him, but at least he can demand some answers from him. Arrest him, ideally, though Athos isn't counting on that.

The alley is momentarily quiet. Grimaud's voice, when it comes, seems to echo off the walls, making him hard to locate. "Walk away, Musketeer. This hurt no one until the Musketeers interfered."

Athos scoffs, unamused. Of course he’s not going to walk away. Doesn’t Grimaud know him at all? He can’t locate Grimaud at the moment but he keeps his pistol up, stepping further into the alley. "Filling your pockets with tax money?" he inquires, contemptuous. "Is that still part of your great plan to save the city, or merely greed talking?"

"The money would line the coffers of the King. The people see none of it," Grimaud tells Athos, trying to draw his sword as quietly as he can, preparing to step out if necessary. 

"It serves to fund a war you're striving to lengthen for your own gain," Athos refutes, harshly. It seems whatever has transpired between them changed nothing to their arguments, at least. “And now you profit from this, too.”

"How do you know this isn't being shared? The people wouldn't tell you if it was, would they?" Grimaud’s tone is quiet and arch but Athos merely snorts, almost at the end of the narrow street now. 

“Is it? Are you sharing it with the poor, Grimaud?" he challenges. That could make Athos change his mind about the entire operation, but he doubts it very much.

"You're walking quite well," Grimaud notes after a beat, changing the topic. When Athos passes him, he steps out, angling his blade tip for Athos's side. "I wouldn't have expected that, Musketeer."

Stilling, Athos turns his head to glare at him. They're acknowledging it, then. Acknowledging what they do by night in broad daylight, and on duty. "No thanks to you," he answers, arching his eyebrows. He could probably jump away from Grimaud's sword and shoot at him but he does not. It seems like an unnecessary risk, considering.

"Ask the women of the brothel if they are eating better these days," Grimaud murmurs, keeping the blade tip in Athos's ribs as he gets behind him. Then he'll run, ducking out of the alley and away. Now is not the time to die, nor is it the time to explore what exists between them in the dark.

"Which brothel?" Athos demands, but when he turns around, Grimaud is gone, yet another one of his improbable escapes. The words have him curious still, and he will investigate. There are a lot of brothels in Paris and Athos is hardly a specialist, but he’s persistent, and wants to find out what Grimaud meant. 

He takes Aramis with him, both because that's a world Aramis is more familiar with, and because Aramis is much better than he is at talking to prostitutes without scaring them. Together, they do manage to find quite a few girls living in better conditions since a mysterious benefactor showed up.

It’s almost startling, this side of Grimaud. Athos has never known him to do anything unless he can profit from it, so he isn’t entirely sure what to make of this. He remembers what Grimaud said about his mother, still, and wonders whether there is a connection. 

"What was that about?" Aramis asks, sticking his hat back on his head as they exit another brothel. "Surely, we aren't going to put off someone who is actually helping these women eat better than they were, are we?"

"That depends on how they are procuring the money," Athos answers, giving Aramis a pointed look. 

"Is that connected to the shipments we were investigating?" Aramis asks, sure that there is a big picture that he's missing.

"Perhaps," Athos answers, and he will say no more on the question. Watching him, Aramis suspects this particular investigation will be dropped here, and whoever is giving money to the women won’t be made to stop. Good. Aramis knows too well how hard living in a brothel can be. 

It is unlike Athos still, to be unwilling to find out what is truly happening, or at least to be unwilling to share what he knows with his friends. That, added to everything else that’s been going on with Athos as of late, has Aramis asking, "are you all right, Athos? You've been acting ... strange lately." Odd and off and more distant than usual.

Not that Aramis is one to talk with his secret meetings with the Queen, but he’s concerned about his friend nonetheless. 

Athos looks up at the question, considering Aramis carefully. He doesn't want to talk about it (he doesn't think he could even explain what the hell is going on exactly between him and Grimaud), but he appreciates Aramis's concern. He shows it by leaning closer and clasping Aramis's shoulder gently, a quiet show of gratitude.

That isn't an answer, Aramis notices. Or at least it isn't an _I'm fine_ answer. He frowns, even as he squeezes Athos's shoulder in return. "If there's anything I can do ... "

"Thank you," Athos says, quietly, patting Aramis's shoulder gently before he withdraws. It's the only answer he can give without lying, and he doesn't want to lie to Aramis. They make their way back to the Garrison, Aramis heading towards the stables when Porthos gestures him over with a grin. They’re betting on which of the new horses will be the fastest, and Porthos thinks Aramis should join in. 

"Someone left this for you, Captain," Athos is told at once, and a Musketeer hands over a note in an envelope with a wax seal he doesn’t recognize. 

"Thank you," Athos says and waits until he is in his office to open it, carefully unsealing the thick paper with one of his daggers. Inside is ragged script, not particularly elaborate or beautiful.

_Did you find what I said you would, Musketeer?_

_Tonight when the sun goes down, you will bring yourself to the edge and stop._

_I will know if you do not follow orders._

_LG_

The scribbled words make Athos feel cold and then very hot as anger wages war with arousal in the pit of his stomach. He crumples the piece of paper between his fingers, throwing it into the fire. He will keep the envelope with the seal though, an odd display of sentiment.

He should ignore this, he knows, but he's fully aware that he won't. Whatever Grimaud's spell over him is it holds firm, and he's powerless to resist. Grimaud knew what he was doing when he told him to follow orders, too. Duty is important to Athos, and with duty comes obedience.

He sits on his bed with the empty envelope in his lap for a while, watching the sunset through his small window. He doesn't know whether Grimaud is somewhere spying on him but he'll light a candle in the window and leave it to burn there as he undresses, keeping only his underwear on.

He lies down in bed and palms himself slowly, feeling his cock react to the touch easily. The ache inside him is less painful now but the memory of it is still stark in his mind and he licks his palm before stroking himself more firmly, his eyes shut. He thinks about Grimaud's hands, rough on his skin and flecked with blood, about his mouth, and how it had been cruel in its words and kisses.

It doesn't take Athos very long to build his pleasure almost to the point of no return, the thought of Grimaud waiting for him to do just this and suffer from it vivid in his mind. He knows this means Grimaud will come back to him sooner or later and he burns for it in a way that he can’t quite explain. Grimaud's devious games have lit inside him a hunger that is growing difficult to control.

He gasps and makes himself stop, letting go of his cock and shivering in the cool air of his room, his eyes tightly shut. More than climax, he yearns for Grimaud's unkind touch again. It takes him a long time to cool down, his groin aching dully as his erection flags. He blows out the candle and settles back into bed.

n the morning, there is another note under Athos's door. Four words: _Tomorrow night. Sainte Chapelle._

That means, in Grimaud's special way, that Athos did well. It means he too, has been thinking of what they did together, of how he left Athos sore and wanting. It means he can’t wait to do it again. 

Athos understands well enough, and it sends a treacherous heat down his front. The location makes him wary still, of exactly what Grimaud intends to do at the Chapel.

He still goes, removing his hat and crossing himself as he steps into the church. Grimaud is already there, sitting in the quiet, staring up at the elaborate stained glass. He doesn't look over when Athos comes closer though the bench next to him, of course, is open for sitting.

"You could have chosen another place for this," Athos states, quietly. He doesn't need the reminder that what they are doing is utterly sinful, branding him as hell-bound.

"Little of what man does in this world is beautiful," Grimaud answers, looking up and around.

Athos's face holds some measure of surprise as he looks over to Grimaud. He didn’t think Grimaud was one to appreciate beauty, but perhaps he misjudged him. He likes the Sainte Chapelle as well, one of the few truly beautiful places in Paris. It seems unlikely Grimaud brought him here to appreciate the stained windows but he says nothing in reply, just sitting for a while, enjoying the cool air and the high ceilings.

"What of the Portuguese?" Grimaud asks, keeping his voice down. "Will they be kept from delivering?"

"What's left of their crew may resume their trade if they pay their taxes." Athos won't go after Grimaud for this, considering the money was put to good use, but he won't allow illegal trade to happen under his watch, either. Whatever this thing between them is, it doesn't affect his principles.

Grimaud’s jaw works in displeasure and he turns his head to look at Athos. "How badly do you wish to spill, Musketeer?" he asks, his voice low. "How difficult was it to stop?"

Keeping his eyes on the painted ceiling, Athos very pointedly ignores the heat that is beginning to spread through his body.. "We are in a church," he points out, reproachfully. 

" _Answer the question_ ," Grimaud orders, "or I'll defile you here in this place of worship." His tone tells Athos not to doubt that.

Athos opens his mouth to say that he would put up a fight, but they both know how such a struggle would end. He grits his teeth for a few seconds and then answers, his tone clipped. "Difficult."

"The alley a block west," Grimaud says, standing. He will meet Athos there.

Athos actually feels grateful for the change in location, which in turn makes him angry, as it was most likely Grimaud's plan all along.

He could leave, that much he knows, but it would mean having to wait long days, perhaps even weeks, before Grimaud calls on him again, and he wants this too much. He nods curtly and waits for Grimaud to leave, giving him a few minutes, before he follows.

Once he gets there, he steps into the shadows, stopping when Grimaud comes to meet him. "You'd rather be here," he notes, darkly amused, "where anyone could see you." Rather than the relative privacy of a building that cannot contain God.

Holding his eyes, Athos tilts his chin up defiantly. "If these are my only options," he answers, his tone steely. He swallows dryly when Grimaud merely smirks and gestures for him to turn around and face the wooden wall behind him. 

This is much worse than being bound and at Grimaud's mercy. This is willingly turning around and putting himself there, asking to be touched and tainted again. He'll do it still, his back to Grimaud and his hands at his sides, head down.

Even though Athos is taller than him, Grimaud comes up behind him, pressing his chest to Athos's back, his weapons thrown to the ground for the moment. He guides Athos's hands to brace against the wood of the building. Then he can start to pull open his doublet, reaching for warm skin over his heart, before skimming his hands down to unlace Athos's trousers.

Athos stands still for it, feeling Grimaud's breath on the nape of his neck and the warmth coming from his body through their clothes. Grimaud's hands on his chest make him shiver and his head lolls back onto Grimaud's shoulder, his eyes closed. It doesn't take much to unravel him and the realization that Grimaud has him hard and willing with a few touches is unpleasant, if not unexpected. He cants his hips up, his lips parting when Grimaud's fingers finally wrap around his cock.

"You want this, Musketeer," Grimaud murmurs, his breath hot gainst Athos’s cheek. He smirks as he strokes Athos's cock, hard but deliberately slow and taunting. "But you need to beg to spill. I want to hear you ask for it."

Athos has seldom begged in his entire life, and never for his own sake. His hands flatten against the wall, fingers digging into the wood. He opens his mouth and tries to focus on the feeling of Grimaud's hand on his cock, on how much he wants this. "I can't," he whispers, his eyebrows furrowed. His pride won't let him. It's too much, even though he wants to come, even though he needs relief after days of thinking about Grimaud.

"Then you won't," Grimaud says matter of factly, watching the way Athos’s shoulders sag miserably. He doesn't stop stroking though, smirking a little. "I'll use your mouth instead."

That gets Athos’s attention. He's not sure he'll be much good at it because he's never done anything like this before, but he is willing to try if Grimaud demands it. He nods, just once, accepting, and closes his eyes to better enjoy Grimaud’s rough handling while he can. 

When he can feel Athos stiffen and feel that climax that wants to come, Grimaud squeezes nearly painfully before letting go. It makes Athos hiss, his impending climax cut short and a dull ache spreading in his groin. He pants, leaning against Grimaud as he tries to catch his breath, shuddering. He wants this. He wants this so much, and yet he still can't bring himself to beg.

He goes easily when Grimaud pushes him, falling to his knees on the dirty ground, his head down. He looks quietly defeated, his cheeks flushed and his eyes dark. Grimaud watches him with quiet pleasure, reaching out to touch his cheek gently, urging his head up. 

Athos looks up, meets Grimaud's eyes, and can't look away. His eyes go a little wider as Grimaud pulls his cock free of his trousers and steps forward, using his thumb to push Athos’s mouth open. “Suckle,” he commands, and Athos complies, his tongue flattening against the pad of Grimaud’s thumb, tasting metal and gunpowder. 

With a quiet grunt of pleasure, Grimaud uses his thumb to keep Athos’ mouth open as he replaces it with his cock, guiding it inside. Athos takes it well enough, Grimaud's cock heavy on his tongue, hot and soft. It’s not difficult to do what he knows Grimaud wants, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks. It's filthy and it brings a bright red blush to his cheeks, but he doesn't dislike doing it.

Pulling in a breath between clenched teeth, Grimaud stares back. He rocks his hips, wanting to feel the head of his cock butt against the back of Athos's mouth, to see if he can make him gag. His free hand lands in Athos's hair, fisting there to hold him in place.

Athos's eyelids dip, making his eyes look hooded, but he doesn't break eye contact. He sucks slowly, trying to keep his teeth at bay as he feels Grimaud's cock slide over his tongue slickly. He does gag when it hits the back of his throat, his eyebrows furrowing at the sensation. He doesn't try to pull away still, swallowing against it.

Grimaud grunts at the feeling of that constriction. From there, he just uses Athos's mouth, nearly pulling out then thrusting in deep again. Even as his own pleasure builds, he keeps Athos's eye, letting him see how his mouth makes him feel.

The harsher pace is harder to keep up with and Athos’s eyes narrow, his breathing going irregular. He keeps gagging, his throat rebelling against the assault and his jaw aching. There is something particularly undignified about allowing this and he knows it’s part of Grimaud’s pleasure to break him like this. He doesn’t think he minds, even as he feels spit dripping down his chin and Grimaud’s fingers in his hair pull too hard. 

Athos only breaks eye contact when Grimaud comes, gagging but not pulling away, the tang of it heavy and bitter on his tongue. He coughs when Grimaud finally withdraws, his lips tingling, trying to catch his breath. Grimaud was unkind in this, as he is in everything they do together, but Athos didn't dislike it. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and doesn't try to stand up. His cock is still hard, wet at the tip, and he watches as Grimaud tucks himself away, tying his trousers. 

Grimaud’s hands are back on him soon enough as he crouches down to meet his eyes. He touches Athos's chin first, a thumb running over that swollen lower lip. He wants to bite it, to suck it, but he doesn't. He's being cruel to himself too, in this.

Athos's eyes close and he leans into the touch, his lips parting. He's still panting a little, feeling too hot in his uniform, and keeps shivering. He makes a low noise when Grimaud grips his cock, his eyebrows furrowing. 

"Each night, you will bring yourself to the brink, then stop. Then you'll do it in the morning as well. When you are ready to beg, you will know how to find me," Grimaud tells him, a low whisper.

Lifting his head at the words, Athos’s jaw sets unhappily. He searches Grimaud's eyes for a few long seconds before nodding, jerkily. This could take a while, he knows, and it will not be pleasant.

Grimaud rises and urges Athos to his feet as well, holding his elbow to support him if he needs. He'll even do up the Musketeer's trousers,  too roughly to be comfortable,  tucking his erection away not entirely kindly and making Athos  lean away and back against the wall, finishing to lace up himself.

"Go home, Musketeer. Tomorrow morning, you start." How long will it take for Athos to break, Grimaud wonders. It will be its own kind of hell for him, too.

Athos doesn’t want to go. He wants to stay and bite at Grimaud’s mouth and rut against him until he finds his relief. He does not. Instead he goes, the line of his shoulders rigid as he walks back to the Garrison, taking the long road to give his erection time to subside. He doesn't turn back, but thinks he can tell when Grimaud stops following him and disappears in a side alley.

He goes straight to his office and absent-mindedly does a little paperwork before retiring for the night with a bowl of soup and a piece of bread. It will take him a long time to fall asleep, knowing what awaits him in the morning and every day from then on.


	6. A Waiting Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Release has never felt so sweet and he feels completely unraveled, exposed but not ashamed. Grimaud smells like gunpowder and leather, he thinks as he gets his bearings, his nose pressed just under his ear. He straightens, leaning up to look at him.

This enforced sexual control, Athos finds after just one day of it, is a problem wine can't solve, not even temporarily. That's never happened to him before. Getting drunk had always been a welcome reprieve from his pain, much-needed despite its price. But in this case, wine makes things worse. 

In the past, drinking has never made him wanton but it does now, it makes it harder to stop thinking about Grimaud, to stop rutting against his own bed. It makes his dreams an even more bewildering confusion of pleasure and often, pain. 

He takes to waking early, so he can do what Grimaud demanded of him and then have time to douse himself in cold water and calm down. He also takes to falling asleep late, as it grows more and more difficult to force his body away from arousal and into sleep. 

It takes its toll on him very quickly. There are dark circles under his eyes and his temper is paper thin, snapping a lot more often at the Red Guard and even at reluctant suspects they are interrogating.

It's perhaps the third morning of this when Aramis and Porthos sit across from him, their faces a matching set of frowning concern. They have talked about whether they should say something and it has been decided that they should. That is this morning.

"Are you all right, Athos?" Aramis asks, keeping his tone purposefully light. He doesn't want his friend to get defensive or any more irritable than he already seems to be. It's a noticeable switch from how he had been previously, lighter, warmer, even smiling upon occasion. Now that Aramis is back in the fold, he wants to find his familiar position of caretaker and caregiver. If Athos needs him, he will be here for him. 

Looking up from his barely-touched breakfast plate, Athos takes in the look on his friends’ faces Oh, _hell_. He’d known they would notice, known they would be concerned and ask about it. He hasn’t been looking forward to it. He doesn't want to lie to them, but he cannot tell the truth, either. He isn't even sure how he would word it.

He gives Aramis a look in answer, not angry but just trying to make him drop the issue, and continues eating his breakfast. 

"If there is anything we can help with," Aramis starts. "Or perhaps something we can do. Perhaps it is something that would benefit from a surgeon's care?"

Porthos, for his part, watches, chewing on a carrot.

It’s not that Athos doesn’t appreciate his friends' concern, really, he does. He is unable to welcome it at the moment but he knows, objectively, that he should be grateful for it. He shakes his head, slowly. Unless Aramis can surgically remove his pride, there is nothing he can do. "This is a matter I have to settle by myself. I will." In time.

"You all right?" Porthos asks, concerned now because Athos admitted that it's an issue. Most issues, in his experience, can be dealt with with force.

Athos looks over to Porthos, setting his cup down. "I have been worse," he answers, with a hint of a smile. It's true, objectively. This is hardly the worst crisis he's faced

"If you need us," Porthos says, keeping Athos's gaze, "you'll tell us." That's not a question. After all he and Athos have been through in the war, he feels comfortable saying that.

"I will," Athos says, and it sounds like a promise. He tilts his head in silent thank you and stands up, unwilling to draw this conversation on. He clasps Porthos's shoulder as he steps away, and nods to Aramis.

Incidentally, there is a little boy to be found sitting on the ground across from the Garrison. Ostensibly, he's begging. It's a good choice of locale. Far be it for Constance to let a child go hungry. But when the boy sees Athos, he always watches him closely.

It takes Athos a while to notice. Constance takes good care of the kid, feeding him and even getting him a better shirt, but he won't stop staring at Athos, who grits his teeth because really, Grimaud? A child has no place in this. When evening comes and the boy gets ready to leave, still watching him, Athos shakes his head at him and looks on as he scampers away.

The child is back the next morning and each morning after that, staying the day, waiting for any kind of message that he is to send back to Grimaud. He's eating better than he has in a year, even having a few coins in his pockets. The woman, too, has soft hands and a warm smile.

Meanwhile, Athos just gets worse. It's subtle but those who know him notice. He looks like he hasn't slept correctly for days (which is true), like his temper might snap at the slightest contradiction (also true), and he's almost distracted at times, almost absent-minded, even on duty.

The afternoon of the ninth day, he sits down in front of the child at the table. The child is eating bread with honey, his fingers sticky, and he watches Athos curiously. Athos looks at him for a while and then makes himself say it. 

"Tell him I will," he says quietly, his eyebrows arching. Before the child can stand up, he adds, "you can come back for dinner, if you want. Tomorrow too." Constance will happily feed him.

The child is unable to hide his surprise at the offer. He'd heard that the Musketeers aren't very nice, but they seem quite nice to him. He snatches up the rest of his bread and nods, then he's off, running to Grimaud; he returns with a sealed note which he hands to Athos.

Inside, it merely tells Athos to wait for him that evening after sundown.

Athos accepts the note, gives the child an apple, and retires to his office. He can't work at all, feeling weighed down by what is going to happen, by what he will have no choice but to do.

He blows out his candle when the sun sets, sitting on his bed in his chemise and trousers, waiting. He feels like pacing, or drinking, or throwing things against the walls but he does not, his head down as he breathes slowly in the growing darkness.

The only warning Athos will get that Grimaud is there is the flicking of the lock. It occurs to Athos that he could have left his door unlocked, really. Not that the lock seems to be any trouble for Grimaud, who now manages to pick it in record time.

Grimaud leans back against the door once he’s inside, observing Athos in the dim light. Athos keeps his head down as he hears him come close, his steps almost silent on the wooden floor. Fingers card through his hair to urge his head back and Athos complies, letting Grimaud see the dark circles under his eyes and the way his pupils are already blown with need, his lips parted in anticipation.

"It's all right," Grimaud whispers, his scarred face almost gentle in its expression. He's here now. He will take care of Athos. "Tell me," he says. He needs to hear the words, however Athos chooses to put it. He needs that last bit of capitulation.

Taking a deep breath, Athos tries to let go. He has thought about this a lot, and it was part of the torment, to feel shame even at imagining the words. His lips move but he makes no sound. He swallows dryly and makes himself do this. The word comes, but not before he's met Grimaud's gaze, tilted his chin up, and set his jaw. "Please."

In the murk of the lightless room, it's hard to tell if Grimaud is smirking or smiling. Either way, his touch is gentle as he traces along Athos's jaw. "Lie back," he tells him, unlacing his trousers. 

He doesn’t sound mocking, and that makes it easier for Athos. He leans into the gentle touch, allowing his eyes to fall half-shut. He did it. He doesn't feel better for it, but he doesn't feel worse, either. This isn’t about pride anymore, it’s about obedience. And obey he will. 

He lies back but he catches himself on his elbows, because he wants to see. He says nothing but his whole body twitches when Grimaud's hands work on his trousers, drawing them down his legs and away. He is already half-hard when Grimaud palms over the curve of his cock through his underwear before pushing those down, too. 

Athos tries to keep quiet, biting on his lower lip when Grimaud touches him, warm and sure. He strives to get his breathing under control, but it's difficult to just lie there and let Grimaud do what he pleases. He leans up and brings their mouths together roughly instead, teeth and tongue involved even as Grimaud’s fingers wrap around him. 

It’s a biting kiss and Athos opens up to it wider when he feels Grimaud’s teeth against his mouth, his hands settling on his shoulders, pulling him closer. Grimaud's eyes are open; he watches up close to see how Athos reacts both to the kiss and to his hand circling his cock, lightly enough to tease, to prolong the inevitable.

Athos's eyes are closed but his face is an open book. He's not one for dramatic expressions by nature but there are small tells, clearly visible if you know where to look. And Grimaud knows where to look, by now. He can see how badly Athos wants this, but he can also see that Athos will let him do what he wants, and draw this on for an agonizingly long time if he must.

It brings Grimaud a dark satisfaction and he stays close as he begins to stroke, his other hand still cradling Athos's head. Unlike before it's a glancing stroke, meant to draw Athos's pleasure out to the sharpest point possible, to make his orgasm as powerful as possible, even as they kiss, even as he listens to Athos breathe.

Athos's mouth falls open but he makes no sound, more out of worry that a concerned Musketeer might come to knock on his door than out of pride. His head grows heavy in Grimaud's hand, his hips rocking faintly against his grip, as if not sure he's allowed.

It's so good. After days of nothing but his own hand and the knowledge that he wouldn't get to come, Grimaud's touch is heaven. He pants between kisses as he can feel himself grow close, his whole body coiling with pent up tension.

"Give it to me," Grimaud whispers, in Athos's ear, their cheeks pressed close. "All you've been holding, all you've been carrying. It is mine now. You are mine now, entirely. Give me what you feel, Athos - " the first time he's said the name - "Let it overtake you."

The words make Athos shudder deeply, his grip tightening on his shoulders, eyes squeezed shut. He likes the way his name sounds on Grimaud's lips and along with that steadily stroking hand, it pushes him towards the edge.

Time seems to stretch as he hovers on the brink, unable to come for a few painful seconds before his body remembers how, a low groan tearing itself from his throat. Pleasure punches through him, mixed with some amount of pain, as his hips roll, his cock jerking over and over again.

"Good," Grimaud murmurs, pressing a kiss to Athos's temple, keeping him there. Athos doesn't black out but everything goes really, really white and he floats, mindless, for about half a minute before he jolts back to himself, his forehead still pressed to Grimaud's shoulder.

His eyes are closed as he catches his breath, his heartbeat returning to normal. Release has never felt so sweet and he feels completely unraveled, exposed but not ashamed. Grimaud smells like gunpowder and leather, he thinks as he gets his bearings, his nose pressed just under his ear. He straightens, leaning up to look at him.

Gazing back at him, Grimaud lets him look at he sees fit even as he undoes his trousers and pulls out his own hard cock. It's his turn to lean back; Athos, he knows, will know what to do: make him come. How is entirely up to him.

Athos stares right back, drinking in the darkness of Grimaud's eyes. His lips part when Grimaud undoes his trousers and pulls out his cock, leaning back. There is a challenge there, he thinks, and a sliver of freedom that feels like a reward. He moves closer, crawling between Grimaud's legs, his hands resting on his hips. He swallows and leans in, stroking his parted lips along the hard length of Grimaud's cock.

Grimaud's lips part in a slow exhale. He even keeps his hands at his sides; there are no orders in this moment, just pleasure, given and received. His cock jerks against Athos's mouth, painting it with precome.

This is something that Grimaud likes, Athos knows. And in this moment, he wants to give Grimaud what he likes. He licks his lips clean, remembering the salty, bitter tang of Grimaud's arousal. He experiments with what he thinks he would like himself, taking just the tip of Grimaud's cock into his mouth and sucking slowly, his tongue stroking circles around him.

There is a tell-tale shudder at that and Athos takes it as a good sign. Grimaud's muscles tense and he puts his hands behind his head, his chin back, his eyes slitted. 

Emboldened by that display of pleasure, Athos's hands slip beneath Grimaud's chemise, stroking over his belly, feeling his ribs expand as he breathes. He's not intentionally trying to tease but he's taking his time, his cheeks hollowing as he takes Grimaud deeper. He remembers that it was unpleasant to choke on it so he's careful about that, letting Grimaud bump against the back of his throat but not stay there, bobbing slowly.

He can see Grimaud's jaw work, see how pleasure tightens his muscles, how it strains his control. Grimaud wants this and this is perhaps when he feels at his most vulnerable. It’s easy enough to take advantage of someone’s desires, he’s done it plenty of times. But Athos doesn’t do that. Athos gives him exactly what he desires, for no other reason that he wants to. 

The closer Grimaud gets to coming, the more ragged his breath becomes. That's when he tangles his fingers Athos's hair again; he won't let him pull away, he wants to spill in the wet heat of his mouth. 

Athos's eyes are wide open and he sees it all, sees the way Grimaud shifts and strains and keeps himself from forcing him down. He feels in control of the situation, for once, though he's not delusional enough to think it isn't because Grimaud is allowing it. Still, it is a rush and he strives to make it good. He hollows his cheeks to suck harder until Grimaud lets out a breathy moan and comes, Athos swallowing steadily so he doesn’t choke on it.

His body curving then slumping back, Grimaud looks nearly relaxed as the aftershocks wash through him. He uses the hand in Athos's hair to urge him up, to kiss him slowly, almost leisurely, to fully taste Athos - and himself - openly.

It's almost odd to see Grimaud like this, boneless and as relaxed as Athos has ever seen him. He finds that he likes it. It's a vulnerable moment for both of them, and Athos will say nothing of it.

Eventually, Grimaud's trousers are slipped off, kicked away, though not far from the bed. Two tunics are lost too and there is skin to skin. Grimaud kisses and touches at a seeming kind of leisure, still nearly silent. 

Though he has enjoyed the dirty power games they have played, Athos finds that doing this naked and in bed, for once, is just as arousing. He strokes his hands over Grimaud's bare skin, elegant fingers tracing the many scars he finds there, and trails kisses along his jaw and neck, hungrily.

When they are both hard again, Grimaud leans over to those discarded trousers and fetches a small bottle. He pulls the cork out with his teeth and slicks his fingers, setting both bottle and cork aside. Athos watches this with dark eyes, spreading his legs a litte wider to welcome Grimaud’s touch. He remembers the pain of this too well but he wants it all the same, wants to feel Grimaud as close as possible.

He makes a small noise of surprise when Grimaud starts to open him, gentle but insistent, because it doesn’t hurt at all. It's a tight fit and he can feel his body clenching around Grimaud's fingers, but the slick he is using makes a huge difference. The fact that Athos is still relaxed helps, his body yielding after his recent climax.

This time, it's about pleasure, not pain, nor dominance, nor control. Grimaud slicks in one finger, then two, slow but efficient, his other hand resting on Athos’s hip possessively. Athos cups his own cock and breathes through it, feeling Grimaud's fingers move inside of him. He feels flushed and wanting, exposed under Grimaud's hungry gaze.

He rolls over easily when Grimaud urges him face down on the bed, bending one leg to make it easier. Grimaud spreads his legs wider and greases his cock, too, pulling Athos's cheeks apart as he pushes inside, slowly, deeply, not stopping until he's fully seated.

Athos makes a strangled noise because it's a tight fit but it's easy, so easy, a smooth glide until their hips are flush together. He grips the sheets with both hands and presses back into it, his cock hard against the bed.

Once again, Grimaud lets Athos hear how he responds, his breathing ragged in Athos's ear as he lingers, feeling that tight clench, unable to bite back the groan that comes out. He presses his forehead to the back of Athos's neck as he rocks his hips, burying himself to the point that his balls rest against his ass, flexing to get just that bit more before he pulls out and pushes in again. It's good enough to make a lesser man cry.

Reaching back, Athos tangles his fingers in Grimaud's hair and tugs slowly. He can't help but moan when Grimaud presses all the way in and then flexes deeper still, his body clenching in response. It feels... good? There is a warm tingle starting to grow inside him, something he hasn't felt before, and it blooms into a sharp burst of pleasure when Grimaud pushes in again, making him gasp and arch back into it, his hips lifting from the mattress.

That control that Grimaud prizes shows itself in how he keeps his pace slow and even, even as his desire flushes his skin and makes it feel tight. "Do you want to touch yourself?" he asks, his voice rough and quiet in Athos's ear.

Athos is gasping out quiet moans every time Grimaud pushes in deep, his fingers tight in his hair. He arches on the bed at the question, pressing his cock to the sheets and his ass against Grimaud's hips. He's not sure he would need to touch himself to come but he still nods, his hips rocking.

"Touch yourself," Grimaud says, fingers tightening on Athos's hips. He will keep his climax at bay until he feels that clench around himself. "Bring yourself over for me. For me." He hisses, hips jerking against Athos's ass.

The words make Athos hiss, his hips moving faster now. He has to let go of Grimaud's hair to lean up and reach down for his cock, muffling a groan into the sheets. It's so good like this, his own hand tight and stroking fast around his cock, Grimaud moving inside him, deep and just hard enough to make him pant. "Grimaud," he says quietly, in a gasp, and comes, his whole body clenching tightly with pleasure.

Such a gift, Grimaud thinks, to hear his own name as Athos takes on that small death. The clench around his cock draws Grimaud's climax from him. He spills into Athos's tight hole, panting out his pleasure.

Athos falls back onto the sheets, not caring that they are sticking to his belly. He feels utterly spent, his body melting under Grimaud's. The warmth and weight of Grimaud's body on top of his is anchoring him and making him feel oddly safe, considering who it belongs to. He doesn't move, just closing his eyes and enjoying it while it lasts.

Slowly, Grimaud pulls out, moving to sit on the edge of Athos's bed. There is a beat when he simply sits, tired and sated and vulnerable, before he reaches over, hand gliding along the curve of Athos's buttock in a quietly possessive gesture.

The touch makes Athos turn his head to look at him, one eyebrow arching. He doesn't smile but the look on his face is thoughtful and relaxed, and he’s content to stay silent for now. He knows he's going to sleep better than he has in weeks, and if his ass does feel a little sore, it's nothing compared to last time, the ache almost pleasant.

"Do not wait so long next time, Musketeer," Grimaud says as he considers him, the faintest smile on his face. He leans away, reaching for his trousers. "Tomorrow evening, after the evening bell, I want you in the alley outside Sainte Chapelle. There, you’ll bring yourself off so I can see. Anyone else can see, too."

He raises his brows, curious to see if Athos will protest. 

Athos does not. His eyebrow arches higher but he likes that faintly playful expression on Grimaud's face too much to start an argument. He understands the point of that new game and it does make him uncomfortable but somehow, he doesn't think Grimaud would let someone else watch him. The man is very proprietary, after all. He nods to show he will, if that is what Grimaud wants.

Satisfied, Grimaud stands and continues to dress. He knows that Athos will sleep deeply and well and that is the gift that he will leave him with. 

Athos doesn't bother to stand up or get dressed, leaning back on the bed and watching as Grimaud puts himself together again. He wants to say something, perhaps, to hold Grimaud back. But what purpose would it serve? Grimaud couldn't sleep there, even if he wanted to. And Athos is fairly sure he does not. 

So he merely watches as Grimaud slips silently out the door and is gone, before he rolls onto the clean side of his bed, closing his eyes.


	7. A Spider's Web

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos puts the small bottle in his pocket, making himself let go of Grimaud's hand. "You ask a lot of me," he says, quietly, but it isn't a refusal.
> 
> "I do." There is no sense in arguing that. But Grimaud doesn't look away or change his demand. He just raises his brows in question. Will Athos say no?
> 
> Athos looks back into Grimaud's eyes and gives a small nod. He'll do it. Even if the idea makes him shiver with shame and arousal alike. He doesn’t think he’s felt such fire lick at the walls of his sense of duty and composure since Milady left. It's terrifying but he is no coward, facing the heat dead on.

The next morning, Aramis and Porthos are sitting at their usual table for breakfast. Aramis is quite ready to go check on Athos when he appears. "Well," he says, clearly relieved, looking Athos over. "Good morning."

Athos looks better. He looks rested, the dark circles under his eyes all but gone, his body much less coiled with pent-up tension. He sits down next to Aramis and nods as he is brought his breakfast. "Good morning," he answers, quietly. He gives a small smile to Porthos, who is looking on.

"You seem better," Aramis notes, pointing out the obvious. "Has your 'issue' been resolved?"

He must be even more obvious to his friends than he thought, Athos reflects, even as the question gives him pause. Has he resolved his issue by giving in, or merely made it worse? "We've reached an understanding," he answers after a beat, which is true enough, though it reveals with finality that the issue is a person.

Aramis exchanges a look with Porthos. "Well," he replies, "I hope that you are pleased with such a resolution."

'Pleased' may not be the appropriate word, but it serves well-enough, as Athos doesn't want to explain. He nods in confirmation and changes the subject to their duties for the day, investigating a theft at a blacksmith's.

It makes for a routine day of investigating, Porthos and Aramis keeping an eye on Athos to confirm that he is back to his normal self. It seems to be the case, as Athos listens to all the suspects patiently, and sharply follows clues until they find the culprit. The theft, it turns out, was rather clumsily done by an apprentice. The young man will be thrown into prison for a few days, at least. At the end of the day, Aramis clasps Athos's shoulder. "Supper?"

Athos glances at the nearest church, looking at the time on the big clock there. He still has more than an hour before the night bell so he nods, and lets himself be led to a small inn where they often have dinner.

It's like old times, with much laughter shared between the four of them. The hour passes quickly and over the hubbub of the inn, the evening bell can be heard ringing. d'Artagnan grins up as he finishes his wine, gesturing the waitress over . "Another round?" he says, looking flushed and happy in the candlelight, one arm companionably thrown around Athos’ shoulders. 

"I have a matter to attend to," Athos answers, finishing his glass. He clasps Porthos’s shoulder as he goes, and gives Aramis a smile. "I'll see you in the morning."

There's a moment when Aramis considers following. Perhaps that will come another time if there is cause for concern. As it is now, they order another round.

Once Athos is out of the inn he hurries, as he does not mean to make Grimaud wait. He doesn't think the man would appreciate that, and he wouldn’t want to jeopardize the fragile agreement they've come to.

Of course, Grimaud is in the alley before Athos is. And when the Musketeer arrives, Grimaud's countenance is stony. "You're late," he notes, though only by a minute or two. Still.

Athos pauses when he makes out Grimaud's figure in the alley. "I apologize," he says, easily because he means it. "It was not my intention to make you wait." He steps closer, trying to see Grimaud in the murk. Grimaud steps back, content to stay in the shadows, his hood hiding his face quite effectively.

"It wasn't your intention," he drawls, "and yet you did. Get on with it, Musketeer," he says, voice low, dark, and sharp.

Athos stops, tilting his head to the side. He can't read Grimaud at all like this, as he stands in the shadows. He has already apologized so he says nothing more of it, merely accepting Grimaud's harsh answer. He would rather Grimaud called him Athos when they do this but he is in no position to ask, and he knows it. 

"Very well," he says, because he knows Grimaud likes his compliance. If this is what Grimaud wants, Athos will do it. He doesn't want to be caught in an alley with his pants down and the potential shame of it is making him flush, but he will do it all the same.

He glances towards the end of the street to check that they are alone and unbuttons his doublet, pulling his chemise free from his trousers. He leans against the wall behind him as he starts on his fly, his eyes on Grimaud. He's not sure what Grimaud wants to see and how he should do this so he's merely efficient about it, cupping his cock through his trousers as he unlaces them.

From the dark, Grimaud asks, "did you think about this today? Were you eager for it or dreading it?" His voice, as usual, makes a shiver go down Athos's spine and he slips both hands into his trousers, freeing his cock. If Grimaud keeps talking to him like this, perhaps this won't be difficult at all.

"Yes," Athos answers quietly, wrapping his fingers around himself and stroking his cock to full hardness. The rest is more difficult to answer, especially considering he cannot see Grimaud's face. He'll chance it, still. "I wanted to see you."

It’s a vulnerable thing to admit but it is true, and Athos is no coward. He's jumped into this head first, knowing the landing would hurt, and there is no going back now.

Stepping forward into the moonlight, Grimaud pushes down his hood. There, Athos can see him, see how Grimaud watches him, gaze moving over his body from his eyes to the way his hand moves.

Seeing Grimaud watching him, eyes dark and unfathomable, makes this easier for Athos. When he was feeling uncomfortable and slightly ridiculous doing this before, the look on Grimaud's face makes him hot under the collar. He strokes himself with more purpose, his eyes on Grimaud's face.

Watching, Grimaud widens his stance, hands cupped in front of his body. His face is impassive but he has tells too, and Athos is beginning to know them.

Loud voices suddenly come from the end of the alley and Athos jumps a little, flattening himself against the wall. But the people there (drunk, by the sound of it) just pass the alley by, not stepping into the narrow street.

That makes Grimaud smirk. "Don't stop, Musketeer. Spill onto the street." 

Athos gives him a glare that is half resentment, half arousal, but he does not protest. He strokes himself quicker now, and a little rougher, intent on finishing as soon as possible. He comes looking between Grimaud's eyes and the end of the alley, his teeth gritted against a moan.

Grimaud closes the distance between them and he touches Athos, tucking his cock back into his trousers and making him jerk because it feels good, even on his spent cock. As he ties Athos’ trousers back up, Grimaud meets his eyes, touching his lower lip with a gentle finger. "Don't make me wait again," he murmurs and Athos nods, watching Grimaud carefully and wondering whether he's going to disappear again.

From a deep pocket in his own trousers, Grimaud presses a small bottle of oil into Athos's palm, folding his fingers around it. "Keep yourself ready for me." He raises his brows. "You will always be ready for me, won't you, Musketeer."

Athos doesn't need to look down to know what Grimaud is pressing in his hand. The idea of opening himself every morning and going on duty feeling slick and turned on makes him flush, his throat working as he swallows dryly. He wonders how often he'll have to do it to be ready all day, and whether he'll need to bring himself off doing it.

He puts the small bottle in his own pocket, making himself let go of Grimaud's hand. "You ask a lot of me," he says, quietly, but it isn't a refusal.

"I do." There is no sense in arguing that. But Grimaud doesn't look away or change his demand. He just raises his brows in question. Will Athos say no?

Athos looks back into Grimaud's eyes and gives a small nod. He'll do it. Even if the idea makes him shiver with shame and arousal alike. He doesn’t think he’s felt  such fire lick at the walls of his sense of duty and composure since Milady left. It's terrifying but he is no coward, facing the heat dead on.

“Good,” Grimaud answers, his voice low. He’s flushing with arousal too, his eyes darkening in a way that makes Athos’s skin tingle. That’s settled, then. He’ll do this every day,  painstakingly, and wait for Grimaud to make good on it.

He leans in a little, wondering whether Grimaud will let him have a kiss before he disappears and watching as  Grimaud actually seems to flush a bit. "Ask for what you want," Grimaid whispers. "And perhaps you'll get it."

"A kiss," Athos says, simply. He arches his eyebrows wryly, as it seems like an oddly innocent favour to ask for in the wake of what they did and have yet to do.

Oddly innocent and quite intimate.

Staring back at him, Grimaud reaches up, wrapping his hand around the back of Athos's neck, between his collar and his skin so that calloused fingers touch warm flesh. It feels like a brand and Athos lets himself be pulled forward, keeping his eyes open so he can watch. Grimaud grants his wish roughly, still biting, his tongue licking at Athos's.

One kiss. That's all. He plants that hand in the middle of Athos's chest to push himself away, taking steps back. "Be ready for me, Musketeer." Who knows when or where - he'll come calling.

“I will," Athos vows. He wants to reach out after Grimaud and pull him back in but that’s not the game they are playing and he does not, watching as Grimaud retreats in the shadows.

That night, Athos sleeps quite well. He wakes up early, faced anew with the perspective of holding up his end of the promise. He looks at the bottle of oil for a while and then shrugs, getting on with it. It doesn't hurt but it feels strange, and quite filthy. He's never done this to himself before and he's actually a little surprised by how tight it feels. He manages two fingers before he decides he's ready enough. He's half-hard by then, more from the memory of Grimaud doing this to him than from the actual feeling.

The day goes by slowly and he does it again after lunch and before dinner, very perfunctorily, only taking a few minutes to think about Grimaud before his mind returns to his duty. It's odd to feel slick all day, his ass tingling a little. He gets flashes of feeling there now and then and it makes him feel flushed at completely inappropriate moments.

In the evening, he is more adventurous. He manages three fingers and realises that if he pushes them in just so, it actually feels quite good. Grimaud hasn't said anything about not bringing himself off so he does, muffling a groan in his pillow.

It's an odd kind of torture. Athos can't help but tingle with anticipation every time he slicks himself open, anticipation for something that doesn't come. At least he is allowed to bring himself off if he wants to, which he does, especially in the evenings. Feeling slick and ready all day keeps him in a low, simmering state of arousal. He conceals it well enough, but by the end of the second day, he's almost ready to beg for it again.

On the third day, Athos passes Grimaud on the street, not seeing him as he stands in the middle of the crowd, dressed in plain clothes. He’s smiling at something Aramis is describing with grand gestures and Grimaud wants to  _ ruin _ him. 

Staying away hasn’t been easy for Grimaud either. He’s busied himself with this and that illegal activity, finding it hard to sleep as his mind keeps returning to Athos. He gives in quicker this time, sending a note on that night via the young boy who has all but taken up residence in the Garrison. 

Turning the letter over in his hands, Athos tries not to let the mere sight of Grimaud’s seal fill him with heat. He thanks the boy and takes the note to his office.  _ Tomorrow night _ , it says. Athos can wait until then. 

He retires to his bedroom after dinner and reads for a while before blowing his candle out. The bottle of oil sits on his bedside table, almost half empty already. He considers it. Might as well, he thinks. Grimaud did say always, and he wants to relieve some of the tension that has been building inside him since he received the note.

It's a quick affair, and he strokes himself to climax with three fingers pressed in as deep as he can manage. He comes quietly, takes a minute to catch his breath and gets up to wash his hands and tidy himself at the bucket before he rolls back into bed. Sleep will come quickly, and deeply. He's not expecting any visitors, after all.

There's that tell-tale click of the lock being picked just a few moments after the light goes out and Athos has climbed into bed; Grimaud slips inside, shutting the door behind himself. He moves quickly and nearly silently to the bed, pulling aside the covers. 

Athos is asleep already. The click registers somewhere in his hazy mind, but it isn't until the bed dips and the covers are pulled away that he jerks awake. He rolls onto his back sharply and suddenly the dagger that sleeps under his pillow is at Grimaud's throat and Athos's eyes are wide in the murk.

Even in the dark, the glint of Grimaud's teeth is evident: he smiles at such a response, his hand covering Athos's on the knife-butt. "If you slit my throat, Musketeer, I'll never let you find relief again."

"You said tomorrow," Athos answers, his voice a low rumble. He looks at Grimaud's mad grin and lowers the knife, slipping it back under the pillow. "How so? You'd haunt me every night?" He answers, amused.

Grinning wider, Grimaud goes back on his quest, touching Athos possessively, urging him onto his belly. "You've been pleasuring yourself liberally, Musketeer," he murmurs, reaching between Athos's legs, then between his buttocks, quickly twisting a finger inside him.

Athos makes a quiet noise into the sheets, shivering. He thinks perhaps he should be ashamed of this, of how effortlessly Grimaud got him used to spreading his legs for him. "I have," he acknowledges, wondering whether he will have to pay for it. 

"Have you been enjoying this assignment?" Grimaud taunts, making Athos lift himself up on his elbows, considering. Has he been enjoying this? Yes. And still. "It was distracting," he answers, though that is not the whole truth.

"Aren't Musketeers supposed to be more focused than that?" Grimaud twists in two fingers, giving Athos's ass a slap with his free hand. "And we wonder why Paris is so slovenly."

Athos huffs in the sheets, nudging Grimaud's thigh with his foot at the slap, though it barely hurts. "Remind me who broke your Portuguese tax fraud operation," he says in return, wryly. And driven half-mad with desire, too. It's an odd thing to tease about, the fact that they are on diametrically opposed poles of the law.

In answer, Grimaud works to find that curve of a part inside Athos, making him gasp, his back arching. So, this is common knowledge, he thinks. He was beginning to wonder whether there was something wrong with him. He is silent as Grimaud touches that spot inside him, but his breathing quickens and his hips rock a little, pressing his hard cock to the cool sheet under him.

Fingering him a moment longer, Grimaud backs up, pushing at Athos's legs to urge him to his back, even as he gets to his feet to strip down from the waist down.

When he comes back, he kneels between Athos's legs, urging them up to his chest and higher still, guiding him to hold them high until Athos is bared in perhaps the most humiliating way. It’s an uncomfortable position to hold and as Grimaud leans over him, Athos understands what he means to do. 

It's undignified to lie there with his knees up and his ass exposed in a way that makes Athos glare and flush with heat at the same time. On the other hand, it means he can wrap one leg around Grimaud's back and look at his face when he pushes in, which is almost startlingly intimate.

With one hand braced in the bed by Athos's head, Grimaud starts to move, letting his hips slap against Athos's ass. It's filthy and obscene how slick Athos's hole is; how easy it is to move.

Athos keeps his leg where it is, his heel pressing against Grimaud's back. Both his arms come up to grip the headboard when Grimaud pushes into him hard enough to rock him up, making Athos throw his head back, tendons bulging.

He watches Grimaud through his lashes, not coy but caught in the heat of Grimaud's eyes. His lips part but he doesn't moan aloud, his body arching under Grimaud's, clenching around him at the feeling as Grimaud buries himself, over and over, in Athos's heat, moving hard enough to make the wooden bed creak. He covers one of Athos's hands on the headboard with his own, teeth bared.

That draws Athos to lean up and press his mouth to Grimaud’s, even as he arches and bucks into Grimaud’s thrusts, knowing he'll feel this come morning. The kiss is heated and biting and they break for breath quickly, Grimaud’s forehead coming to rest against Athos’s. 

Athos gasps as he feels Grimaud go faster and faster, the look on his face wild and heated. He bucks up when Grimaud comes, his eyes wide and his breathing stuttering for a second before he cants his hips to grind his cock against Grimaud’s stomach, once, twice, going over the edge too with a muffled groan. 

Neither of them move for a long moment as they catch their breaths, sweat cooling on their bodies. It’s not uncomfortable but it’s intimate, almost more so than what they just did, their heartbeats growing slower together. Athos wants to turn his head and take another kiss, faintly hoping that it might be a gentle one this time. 

Before he can Grimaud shifts away, pulling out with a groan and sitting at the end of the bed, his head in his hands. For this - this unraveling that Athos may not even be aware he's done - Grimaud should kill him. He should make Athos suffer. 

It makes Athos sigh quietly, stretching his legs on the bed and slowly standing up to go and get a washcloth to clean himself. There is oil from his belly to the back of his thighs and he feels filthy. His eyebrows arch when he sees Grimaud sit at the end of the bed with his head in his hands, unsure what this is about. Grimaud has never shown weakness to him, outside of brief, fleeting moments while they're having sex.

When Grimaud stands, then, he dresses brusquely. He catches Athos's neck again, pulling him close. "Don't be so sure of yourself, Musketeer," he growls, taking one more kiss, making sure to keep it harsh.

"I am sure of nothing, when it comes to you," Athos says, quietly. He doesn't try to hold Grimaud back, accepting the bruising kiss and watching him leave.

As absurd as it seems, they are both growing attached. It's a terrible idea -that much Athos knows- but it's much too late to back away now. This might end up making him miserable, but telling Grimaud not to come back doesn’t even come to Athos’s mind. However ill-advised this is, he likes it, and he’s not ready to break it off. 

He might not have to, he realizes with a sigh. Judging from his parting words, Grimaud might be getting uncomfortable with this, decide he has had enough of him, the sex and the sentiment alike, and go back to scowling from the shadows.


	8. All These Pieces of Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What are you doing to me," Grimaud demands, fisting his hand in the material of Athos's chemise. "What are you doing to me, Musketeer?!" It's clear in the fog of what he says that he is not referring to the treatment, but to something much larger. "Look at me, damn you!"

Athos waited. He waited the next day for a glimpse of Grimaud or a note from him but there was nothing. Perhaps it was another of Grimaud's cruel games, he thought, though it seemed unlike him not to tell Athos he was being played. 

After three days of silence, he had to admit to himself that perhaps he had been right after all. Grimaud had grown bored of tormenting him, tired perhaps, of how easily Athos yielded to his  every wish. Or perhaps he'd grown too close, as Athos had felt on that last night, and decided he wanted none of it.

On the fifth day, Athos makes sure he isn't being followed and buys a few bottles of wine, quietly getting drunk in his room. He doesn't want to display the fact that he's miserable, in case Grimaud is watching, but he certainly is. It's for the best, he tells himself by the end of the week, focusing on his duty. This was a shameful, ill-advised affair, and he should never have entered it.

Elsewhere, it is probably not surprising that one of the less-than-upstanding people Grimaud worked with crossed him, sticking a blade between his ribs. When Grimaud fights back, the tip of the blade breaks and lodges in his chest.

He manages to get a few streets away before his legs give out and he falls, first to his knees, then to the filthy dirt of the street.

A few hours later, the young boy who works as Grimaud’s messenger comes running into the courtyard of the Garrison, shouting Athos's name. When he sees him, he grasps his hand tightly, all but dragging him out and into the street. Athos tries to calm the boy - whose name is Grantaire, he’s learned - his eyebrows arching when he's pulled along towards the South of the ci ty.

"Here! He's here - " Grantaire points down a gloomy street. "He's hurt. He'll be angry at me for  getting you." He is going no further, even as Athos glances at the dark alley, not needing to ask who exactly is there. The boy seems genuine enough but this could very well be a trap, Athos knows. He pats Grantaire’s head and tells him to go home, slipping his musket out as he steps into the alley.

He progresses slowly in the dim light, until he can make out the shape of a body on the street. 

Grimaud. 

Athos's first thought is that he's dead, and it's like a kick to the chest, sudden and painful. There is blood, and rather a lot of it. Athos's mind goes blank and he finds himself on his knees by Grimaud's side, desperately looking for a pulse. He finds it, slow and weak as it is.

His eyes slits, Grimaud stares at him when Athos rolls him over, snarling. Just like an cornered animal, he acts out when he's hurt. But he's too weak now and that’s all he can do: snarl. 

Athos snarls right back. "You're an idiot," he says, to hide the way his heart is pounding. He unlaces Grimaud's doublet to see where he is hurt, his fingers skimming carefully along his ribs to the jagged edges of the cut. He can feel the blade still in there, too, and it makes his stomach turn. Tearing a large strip of Grimaud's shirt he dresses the wound, as tight as he can to avoid  more blood loss.

He hopes Grimaud can walk, at least a little, so he won't have to carry him all the way back to the Garrison. He would, though, and further still if needed. He wraps his arm under Grimaud's arms, pulling him to a sitting position.

The sound that Grimaud makes is like a wounded animal, nearly a howl. But even with that, even as he leans the bulk of his weight on Athos's shoulder, he gets his feet under himself, half-walking, half-being dragged.

It makes Athos's heart ache but there is no other way, and he drags Grimaud to a standing position, digging his heels in and taking most of his weight. He keeps talking, very quietly, as he marches Grimaud to the Garrison, telling him how much of an idiot he is, and how he'd better not die on Athos and that they are almost there, almost. 

Each step jostles the blade part against Grimaud’s ribs, agonizingly.

They draw a few odd looks but it's early still and there aren't many people about. No one seems  interested in stopping a Musketeer seemingly rescuing a wounded man, either.

Athos drags Grimaud into the Garrison, avoiding the Musketeers in the courtyard and making for his room directly. He'll sit Grimaud on the bed carefully, looking up sharply when it’s clear that Grimaud can barely keep from screaming at the movement, his teeth gritted tightly enough that his jaw aches.

“Don’t move,” Athos whispers, striding back out and knocking on Aramis’s door insistently. 

There is a long pause before Aramis answers, padding barefoot to his door with his hair in great disarray as he finger-combs through it. He is dressed only in his chemise and braies as he squints at his friend. "Athos ... ?"

Athos's eyes are wild, his face is pale and there is blood all over his doublet. "I have a favour to ask of you," he says, hurriedly. His hands might be trembling. "Bring your surgery kit." He meets  Aramis's eyes. "Ask no questions."

Immediately, Aramis is moving, pulling on his trousers and grabbing his kit. They all trust each other to the point that if Athos needs him he comes, no questions asked.

That doesn’t stop him from drawing up short when he sees who's passed out on Athos's bed. "Is that ... ?" He asks, even as he's moving in, kneeling by the bed and unrolling his kit. This is  interesting.

"No questions," Athos reminds, sharply, though he is grateful, so very grateful, for Aramis's quick reaction and willingness to do this. He tears through Grimaud's shirt with his dagger, removing the makeshift bandage he fashioned earlier on to reveal the wound.

"I need wine," Aramis murmurs. "Pour it over the wound." He'll need to get the metal out of Grimaud's wound. "It might already be infected. Quickly, Athos."

Athos has wine. He'll get the strongest he has left and pour it over the wound, a slow trickle until Aramis tells him to stop.

"Hold him down in case he wakes up," Aramis says as he starts to pry at the wound and Athos kneels on the bed, one hand fisting in Grimaud's shirt at his shoulder and the other gripping his hip.

When Aramis prizes the knife blade into the wound and starts to push, Grimaud comes to consciousness with a hissed-out roar, straining against Athos's arm.

"Stay still," Aramis instructs harshly. "If I don't pull this out, you'll die."

Grimaud swallows harshly, all the muscles in his body tense.

Athos holds him down, leaning in so he can meet Grimaud's eyes and keep them. "He knows what he's doing," he says, quietly. His thumb strokes across Grimaud's bare collarbone. "It won't take long."

Bucking again, just once, Grimaud then goes still, staring intently into Athos's eyes.

It's all very, very interesting, Aramis thinks, even as he focuses on what he's doing. He gives Athos a glance of warning when he finally has the leverage to pull the metal out.

One, two -

The choked-back shout is hoarse and hissed and then Grimaud goes still again.

Aramis tosses aside the knife-blade-tip. "Now, I need to stitch him up," he murmurs, reaching for needle and thread. Never looking away from Grimaud, Athos nods to Aramis, staying where he is, the line of his shoulders tense.

There is much to be asked, but Aramis will wait. He sews Grimaud up quite neatly, the process made easier because the man has once again passed out. He is finished quickly and he wraps his tools up. "He should rest. Do you want me to stay?" he asks as Grimaud seems to breathe more easily in his slumber, relaxing more fully into Athos's bed.

Athos shakes his head, slowly. "I'll watch him," he answers, quietly. He touches Aramis's shoulder, squeezing. "Thank you."

"If you need me ... " Aramis starts. He knows that Athos will find him, though he doesn't expect him to reach out unless it's quite dire.

"I will," Athos says, thankful for the offer. Grimaud could still develop a fever or an infection, he knows. He doesn't offer an explanation, letting Aramis think what he wants. He cannot explain this, in truth, not even to himself.

Aramis lets himself out, closing the door. 

Athos tasks a Musketeer with telling the Garrison he will not be able to perform his duties that day, and requests food and water. Then he sits by the bed and watches Grimaud. He's paler than the usual under the grime and blood on his face and Athos tugs the blanket on top of him carefully.

For his part, Grimaud will sleep for another three hours before jerking away, immediately alert, immediately ready to spring. Athos is still there three hours later, reading by the bed. He looks up when Grimaud awakes, leaning in. "Don't move," he says, his tone quiet but warning. "You need to rest." And because Grimaud seems ready to run already, he adds. "Stay in bed or I'll knock you back out myself, so help me God."

His teeth still clenched, Grimaud takes everything in, moving from focusing on Athos to the wound he can feel in his side. He peels up the wrapping to look at the bloody stitching, so very neat.

"So, that's who made yours so pretty," he mumbles, falling back on the bed, eyes tired and slitted.

'Pretty' isn't the word Athos would choose, but Aramis's stitching is much better than the jagged mess he's seen elsewhere on Grimaud's body, yes. "Aramis could have been a seamstress, in another life," he says, quietly. There is so much they should talk about, and Athos wants to broach none of it.

"Why am I here, Musketeer?" Grimaud asks.

Athos considers him carefully. He knows what Grimaud is asking, not how he got there in the first place, but why.

"Because I am a fool," Athos answers, quietly. He glances back to his book, not wanting to see  the look on Grimaud's face. "Go back to sleep. You’ve lost a lot of blood."

"You are a fool," Grimaud mumbles. His tone is muddled, somewhere between fond and an attempt at hostility.

Athos hums, noncommittally. He won't look up until Grimaud's breath has evened out, watching him sleep with thoughtful eyes. He reads for a while longer, only stepping out of his room for a few minutes, wary that Grimaud might try to escape and injure himself further. He has lunch quietly when the time comes, and does some paperwork at his desk, keeping his seals under key.

By the time the evening bell rings, Grimaud is awake again, and restless. He pushes to his feet with another one of those bitten-back groans. Athos is on him immediately, his eyes flashing. 

"No," he says, his tone steely, and he pushes Grimaud to sit back onto the bed, careful not to jolt him. His jaw is set in determination. "Are you hungry?" he asks, hoping to divert Grimaud's attention.

"I'm warning you," Grimaud growls, though it lacks the usual wrath, his resistance weak as well. "Let me go." His stomach growls at the idea of food, though, betraying him.

Athos just gives him a look. Grimaud is in no shape to fight him, and Athos might be even more stubborn than him, when it comes to it. "I'll get you something to eat. You stay in bed," Athos states, warningly. He won't leave Grimaud alone, merely stepping out into the corridor for a few  seconds to ask a servant to bring him food.

Even as he does that, Grimaud is trying to move again, wavering as he gets to his feet, starting toward that open door. It is nearly entirely dark out. He can disappear now.

But Athos is back too soon, nearly bumping into Grimaud on his way back in.His face tightens in anger but he's not really surprised, grabbing Grimaud's elbow and silently pulling him back  towards the bed. "You need to rest," he says, between clenched teeth. He doesn't meet Grimaud's eyes. "If it's my company you do not want, I'll wait outside."

"What are you doing to me," Grimaud demands, fisting his hand in the material of Athos's chemise. "What are you doing to me, Musketeer?!" It's clear in the fog of what he says that he is not referring to the treatment, but to something much larger. "Look at me, damn you!"

"You're delirious," Athos answers and he actually sounds worried now, touching Grimaud's forehead and cheeks to see if he is running a fever. Grimaud is hot to the touch, and flushed. 

"What are you doing to me?" Grimaud asks again, almost wondering, almost pleading. "What have you done to me, you foolish Musketeer?" With one hand still fisted in Athos's shirt, Grimaud's other hand touches Athos's face. His eyes are harsh but they are bleary and feverish, too.

Athos stares, unused to seeing that look on Grimaud's face and hearing that tone in his voice. "I  don't know," he admits, catching Grimaud's hand into his own, gently. "Get back into bed. You can have dinner soon."

There's a snarl; who cares for food? There are bigger concerns. Bigger issues than food. 

As Athos tries to corral Grimaud back towards the bed, pushing him carefully, Grimaud's grip tightens. "Do you still keep yourself ready for me?" he asks, voice turning gravelly. 

"No," Athos answers, flatly. He presses his lips together, displeased that Grimaud would try to use this against him. "I thought I'd seen the last of you," he adds, his eyes dark.

"I am not here because I wish to be," Grimaud sighs, losing his battle with gravity and falling back onto Athos's bed. He braces himself to land, rolling to his back with a hiss, his eyes closed, arm thrown over his face.

Though Athos already knew them to be true, the words hurt. Of course, Grimaud would rather be anywhere else. To the exception, perhaps, of bleeding in a filthy alley. Or perhaps not even that. Athos truly is a fool.

There is a knock on the door and Athos goes to answer it, coming back with a small tray. There is a bowl of soup with meat, bread and butter, a piece of cheese and a pitcher of wine which Athos will keep for himself. "Eat," he says, setting the tray on the bed and stepping away to stand by the window, his back to Grimaud.

Sitting up evokes a harsh grunt but Grimaud manages it. He eats as best he can, but soup when he can't bend over is a messy, humiliating affair. He chews the bread instead, moodily staring at Athos's back. "How did you find me?" he asks, chewing.

"Stroke of luck," Athos says, wryly. He won't get Grantaire in trouble for helping him find Grimaud, not when the kid meant so well. He can hear Grimaud eating. Good. He does not turn around.

Grimaud snorts. "If you find someone with a broken sword tip, save him for me," he says. 

"No promises," Athos answers, his voice dangerously flat. He takes no pleasure in killing, but he will show no mercy to the man who stabbed Grimaud, should he find him first.

"Do you believe in luck, Musketeer?" Grimaud asks, as he finishes his bread. 

Athos shrugs at the question, elegantly. "No." Although sometimes he wonders if luck doesn't shine on the Musketeers, as they often manage to escape impossible situations mostly unscathed.

"Then this stroke of luck you speak of is a lie." Grimaud settles back, somehow eased by the food in his belly. 

"Bad luck, perhaps," Athos says, turning around to give Grimaud a warning look. Yes, it was a lie. Well-done, Grimaud.

Scowling, Grimaud slumps lower in the bed. "Where will you sleep tonight?"

"Does it matter?" Athos answers, shrugging again. On the floor, in his chair. Not with Grimaud, that much is for sure.

"It is your room." 

"You are injured. You may take the bed for tonight," Athos says, definitively. He doesn't want to argue about it.

There is one more thing Grimaud needs to say, so he does, his voice low. "I am not endeared to you." He didn't ask to be saved, he seems to say.

Athos turns completely this time, arching his eyebrows at Grimaud. Is that what Grimaud thinks this was about? "Consider it repayment," he states, quietly. "For getting Paris rid of its killer."

After a few moments of terse silence Grimaud closes his eyes, able to rest with a full belly. The pain in his side, at this moment at least, is a dull ache. It will wake him up a few hours in, causing him to hiss through his teeth.

He opens his eyes to see Athos sitting at his desk, doing paperwork. The room is quiet save for the scratch of his quill and the sound of Musketeers training in the courtyard. Athos comes closer as soon as he sees that Grimaud is awake, peeling the bandage on Grimaud's side away to look at his wound. 

It's bright red, no doubt a result of lying in the dirty street for hours before he was discovered. There is sweat beading at Grimaud's brow, too, indicating at least a low-grade fever, his eyes dilated and dark as he stares at Athos, who frowns and gets the small bottle of antiseptic ointment Aramis left, gently rubbing some over the wound. He will give Grimaud a glass of water with willow bark as well, for the fever. Barring that, there isn't much he can do.

"Athos," Grimaud whispers through dry, cracked lips. "I don't want to be buried in Paris."

"You're not going to die," Athos answers, though it's a very real possibility. He sits next to Grimaud on the bed still, watching him. "Are you thirsty still?"

"Promise me," Grimaud whispers, hand clasped in Athos's chemise, even as he nods.

Athos fills a glass with water, leaning in to press it gently to Grimaud's lips. He makes him drink carefully, drop by drop. "You have my word," Athos says, quietly. "Where would you like to be buried?"

"There's a wood. Outside Douai." See, Musketeer; it wasn’t entirely a lie. Grimaud can feel the water run into his belly. "It is as close a home as I have."

"I'll take you there and do it myself," Athos promises, gently smoothing back a strand of Grimaud's dark hair that's sticking to his forehead. "Take you home."

"I don't know how you did it," Grimaud tells him, voice fading, the fever lulling him to sleep. "How you made me care so much."

Athos's breathing hitches, his eyebrows furrowing at the words. That's the problem, isn't it? They both care too much. But Grimaud would never admit it if he wasn't running a fever. And now, he might die. Athos leans in and rests their foreheads together in reply, gently. "Sleep," he whispers.

The corner of Grimaud’s mouth quirks. "Do you sing?" he asks, gaze canting up for a moment before his eyes close again. Athos very nearly chuckles. The answer is no, but Grimaud might be dying and he is willing to make an effort. He hums, his voice low and quiet, a sad song he remembers from his childhood.

It's enough to lull Grimaud to sleep, his cheek in Athos's hand. Athos watches him for a long time and then quietly drags a chair closer so he can sleep there, his face resting on his arm next to Grimaud'. Every time Grimaud shifts or winces in his sleep, Athos hums quietly, stroking his fingers to his cheek gently and telling him that all is well.

When the morning bell rings, Grimaud awakes with a start. His fever broke some time in the night and he feels quite nearly normal again. Looking over, he sees Athos sleeping there, dark circles under his eyes, his hair in disarray. 

Grimaud’s first thought is that he should flee while he can.

He doesn't move except to brush a lock of hair out of Athos's eyes.

Carefully, quietly, and painfully, he gets to his feet and starts to dress, stealing one of Athos's chemises. When he's ready to go, he stops once more to run his fingers through Athos's hair and along his cheek. For now, he's out the door, slipping out of the Garrison and away.

Athos sleeps on, barely shifting when Grimaud touches his cheek. He wakes up a few hours later, sighing when he finds himself alone. He didn't expect any different from Grimaud. It must mean the man felt strong enough to walk still, which is reassuring. He strips the blood-stained sheet from his bed, leaving it on the floor.

As he sits on his bare bed rubbing his face, a knock comes to the door, followed by, "Athos? It's Aramis." 

"Come in," Athos answers, standing up and picking up the sheet to fold it. He wonders whether it's even worth trying to have it cleaned.

When he does, Aramis blinks in surprise that Grimaud isn't there. He arches his brows. "I expected you to have company," he admits, gazing at Athos inquiringly. 

"He's gone," Athos confirms, turning to face Aramis. "He does that." He puts the sheet away and slips his doublet on. "Thank you, for your help."

Aramis brushes off that thanks. It's part of his duty to care for his friends. And for his friends’ enemies, too now, it seems. He waits for a moment, facing the door. "Come have breakfast? We can, erm, burn that," he says of the sheet.

"Probably for the best," Athos agrees, snorting as he considers the sheet. 

"Here," Aramis says, reaching for it with a subtle grimace. "I'll do it." 

Athos hands it over gratefully. He doesn’t like the reminder of how close to death Grimaud got. "I'll see you at breakfast,” he says, patting Aramis's shoulder as he goes. "I'll save you a few carrots from Porthos," he promises with a small smile.

"You're a true friend," Aramis cracks, taking the sheet to burn it on the fire.

Athos’s grin is wan as he steps out, blinking in the morning light. 


	9. Tied Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Life doesn't hand you things, Musketeer," Grimaud reminds Athos. "If you want something, take it." 
> 
> "Is that what you did with me?" Athos inquires, eyebrows arching. He's not upset, just curious. "Wanted me, so you took me?"

The next day, there is a note delivered to Athos by a rather spooked-looking Grantaire.

Patting Grantaire's head, Athos sends him to the kitchens to see Constance. He doesn't open the note at once, keeping it on his desk and then in his breast pocket as he patrols, unsure he wants to know. He caves in and opens it before dinner, throwing it into the fire once he's read it. 

Inside, it says, 

_ After the evening bell, at the Contraire inn.  _

_ LG _

He shouldn't go. Grimaud and he had their time together. They're even, he thinks. Now would be a good moment to break this off. Not painless, but as painless as possible. With that thought, he takes his dinner in his room, looking at the bed where Grimaud lay bleeding and recovered. 

Who is he fooling, he thinks, putting his doublet back on and making for the inn. Of course he's going. 

He's never been to that particular inn so he steps in carefully, assessing his surroundings and catching a glimpse of Grimaud tucked in the back. He’s getting better at spotting him. It's about looking where the shadows are darkest, and thickest. That's where Grimaud will be.

When he sees Athos come in, Grimaud rises, disappearing up the stairs toward the rooms for rent. He goes into one, leaving the door cracked for Athos to enter when he follows cautiously, making sure no-one sees them. 

Silent as he steps in, Athos just looks at Grimaud, trying to assess his recovery. Grimaud makes sure the door is shut and locked before he pulls Athos in for a kiss, his fingers laced through the buttons of his doublet.

Athos lets himself be pulled close but he's rigid into the kiss at first, his eyes open and his hands at his sides. Then he gives in and kisses back, reaching to hold Grimaud by the shoulders, his eyes slipping shut.

"Musketeer," Grimaud whispers before deepening the kiss, which Athos meets, opening his mouth and slipping his fingers through Grimaud's hair. After seeing the man lying in a puddle of blood and mud the day before, Athos feels that he's entitled to that. One hand strokes down Grimaud's ribs, very carefully resting against his wound.

He can feel Grimaud wince, if only because it could hurt. But Athos is careful and Grimaud laces their fingers together, pulling Athos's arm behind his back with a smirk. "Thought you'd seen the end of me?," he asks, his voice almost fond. "You're not rid of me that easily."

Not smiling back back, Athos merely looks at Grimaud's countenance from up close, drinking in the sight of his dark eyes, the scars framing them, and his lips, still parted. He fears he has given away too much and Grimaud is going to toy with him like a cat with a mouse, cruel and making it last agonizingly long. "What do you want, Grimaud?" he asks, his jaw set.

"Why'd you come to that alley?" Grimaud asks in reply, head back to look into Athos's eyes.

There have been so many alleys and Athos has dutifully followed into each and every one of them, like a dog ravenous for a bone. He won't ask, though, and merely assume Grimaud means the last one. "Someone led me to you," he says, which he suspects Grimaud already knows about. And he couldn't leave Grimaud to die there.

After a pause, Grimaud whispers, "seems we're tied together." It's such a soft whisper that Athos might barely hear it before the words are buried in another kiss.

Athos kisses back harshly, showing what he cannot put into words, before he fists both hands in Grimaud's shirt (he knows that shirt) and pushes him just an inch away. "Don't disappear again," he warns, his eyes dark. "Or don't bother coming back." He won't be left and taken back again when it suits Grimaud's needs. Athos doesn't need to be promised anything, but he needs Grimaud to know that he won't let him toy with his heart as he has so far, perhaps not entirely on purpose.

Nodding, Grimaud starts pulling at Athos's clothes, working to tug them and his weapons away and get to warm skin. Athos helps, getting rid of his belt and chemise, starting on Grimaud's doublet in turn. 

With a small noise and a furrowed brow, Athos says, "you stole my best shirt." His eyes crinkle a little at the corners in amused disbelief.

"Take it back, then," Grimaud challenges and Athos wants to grin but he doesn’t quite dare, this playfulness between them too new, too startling.

Grimaud tugs Athos's shirt off, revealing the bandage still on his side. He hasn’t changed it and it’s bled through, red staining the fabric. From the pocket of his trousers, he gets another bottle of that oil, tossing it onto the bed.

"If you pull your stitches, Aramis will make sure to make the second time really painful," Athos warns. That might be personal experience. "Let me see," he requests of the wound, valiantly ignoring the oil and pushing Grimaud towards the bed so he can change that bandage, at least.

"Is this what gets you off?" Grimaud asks, leaning back on the bed. "Blood? If I'd known that, Musketeer .... "

"Oh yes," Athos says, wryly. "Watching you bleed to death in the mud was such a turn on." His eyes are cool again, all mirth gone from them. He considers his options and decides to just sit on Grimaud's thighs, efficiently pinning him down while he checks the wound. The infection has gotten better, it seems, and the stitches look sturdy, if still red. He sets out to dress them, using his clean handkerchief as a makeshift bandage. Grimaud's silence and willingness to let him do this are eloquent enough and Athos focuses on the wound, not daring to look into his eyes just then.

"Am I better now?" Grimaud asks, not letting go of Athos, who discards the bloody bandage and puts his hands over Grimaud's on his thighs. 

"You'll live," Athos says, looking up to watch Grimaud's face.

"Musketeer," Grimaid beckons, chin canted up for a kiss.

"I have a name," Athos points out, leaning down until they are hip to hip and chest to chest, catching himself on one elbow, his other hand cupping Grimaud' face. He runs his thumb over Grimaud's lips gently and then leans in, giving him the kiss he's asking for. 

"Athos," Grimaud says carefully, and Athos hums. 

“Lucien,” he returns, and then slips his fingers through Grimaud's hair, tilting his head to kiss him deeper. It feels dangerously addictive, this intimacy between their bodies and their hearts, feeling how Grimaud runs his hands down Athos's back, the muscle and bone, hands coming to rest on his hips.

His back arching under Grimaud's touch, Athos sucks on his lower lip in answer. He's hard against Grimaud's belly, rocking his hips faintly. He doesn't want to rip Grimaud's stitches by foolishly having sex too soon, still. It’s difficult to resist the urge however, especially when he feels Grimaud spreading his legs, letting Athos rut against him, his own cock hard from the friction of it, from the want of it.

"Fuck yourself on me, M- Athos," he murmurs, reaching for the oil, holding up the bottle. "Do it."

Athos’s face flushes at the blunt words, his mouth going dry at the idea of it. Athos doesn't want to chance hurting Grimaud but he wants this too much to refuse. He’ll be careful at least, his mouth against Grimaud's jaw as he rocks against him, shivering at the pleasure of it.

He takes the oil and pours some in his palm to slick his fingers, kneeling up. He's done this many times now, especially when Grimaud ordered him to always be ready, but he's never had Grimaud watch him open himself before. He licks his lips and presses two fingers inside, angling them the way he's learnt feels best, his hips bucking.

Grimaud swallows hard, his eyes intent, frowning in concentration and touching what he can reach: Athos's thighs, his chest, twisting his nipples. It makes Athos groan and shiver, his head lolling forward when Grimaud grasps his cock and strokes him lightly, watching him. He can feel Grimaud’s own erection jerk against him and it makes him gasp. 

He tries to breathe steadily, his lips parted, and adds a third finger inside himself, spreading them. It stings because it's too soon but he doesn't care, his hips canting into Grimaud's touch. He’s ready and Grimaud can see it, bracing Athos’s hips to help him to rise up, then press down on his erection. His head falls back, then, eyes slitted, pleasure writ in every line of his face. 

Like this, it’s easy to take Grimaud in until he’s so deep Athos can barely breathe, his thighs trembling. He missed the sensation of Grimaud inside him and he rocks his hips in small circles to feel it better, his cock dripping against his stomach. He doesn't wait to start moving, lifting up and falling back down with a low groan, his head back.

That jarring probably isn't good for Grimaud's injury, but for other parts of him, it's clearly just right. He slips a hand from Athos's hip to his cock, letting Athos's movements work him through his circled fingers. His face is flushed, sweat in his hairline.

Athos is trying not to put any pressure on Grimaud's ribs but it's difficult, his thighs straining with the effort of supporting his whole weight. He groans when Grimaud wraps his calloused fingers around his cock, his hips bucking. This position is giving him a lot more control than he usually has and he is ruthless with himself, lifting up and sinking back down harshly.

His own teeth bared, Grimaud digs his heels into the bed. The hand around Athos’s cock stays loose, but the hand on Athos's hip is tight enough to bruise. Athos is growing close already and his rhythm quickens, becomes less steady. He puts his hand on Grimaud's, tightening his fingers around his own cock.

It makes Grimaud huff out a breathy laugh but he tightens his grip, letting Athos chase his pleasure. Athos grins down to him, small but entirely genuine, his eyes dark and wild. He comes with a gasped groan, clenching tightly around Grimaud as he spills all over his fingers, his hips bucking.

Grimaud’s own climax jerks from him with a near shout and he throws his head back, his entire body tensing up. 

Athos gradually goes still and leans down, his hands on Grimaud's shoulders, his head low. His hair is falling on his face and hiding it, his eyes closed and his lips parted as he catches his breath.

"Stay with me, Athos," Grimaud whispers, a hand carding through the Musketeer's hair. "Don't let the small death take you from me."

Shivering at the words, Athos leans in with his eyes still closed, blindly looking for a kiss. His lips connect with Grimaud's scruffy cheek and he smiles, kissing him there before finding his mouth. He pulls away carefully, moving to lie down next to Grimaud, careful not to touch his injured ribs, stretching his legs and getting comfortable. He makes sure to keep their faces together still, his eyes slowly opening.

Expression thoughtful, Grimaud looks back at him, fingers trailing along his cheek before resting on the bed. He's losing the battle to stay awake, clearly, but he will fight. Athos watches him steadily in return, grinning a little when he sees Grimaud's eyelids go heavy with sleep. He rests his hand on Grimaud’s hip, sounding amused. "Go to sleep, Lucien," he says, quietly.

The name - said like that - makes Grimaud shiver; Athos can feel it, even as Grimaud shifts closer, just a bit, and closes his eyes. "Stay with me, Musketeer," he whispers.

"Where would I go?" Athos answers, closing his eyes as well. It's strange to sleep next to someone again, especially someone like Grimaud, whom he never associated with a feeling of comfort and safety before. Still, he falls asleep very quickly, and sleeps soundly until morning.

***

By the time Athos wakes up, Grimaud has been awake for a long while. He has thought about getting and leaving and he’s ended up staying, watching Athos’s face as he sleeps. His expression doesn't change when Athos shifts against him, though perhaps it grows just that little bit more guarded; an instinct he can't help.

Athos obviously takes stock of his position and of where he is, eyes calm as he meets Grimaud’s. He says nothing and leans in until his cheek is against Grimaud's shoulder, quietly affectionate. Grimaud reaches over in return, carding again through Athos's hair, settling with his chin against Athos's temple.

Humming at the touch, Athos is surprised but pleased by it. He honestly could go right back to sleep but there are things to be done, and he'd better get back to the Garrison before Aramis kicks his door in. "What time is it?" he whispers against Grimaud's shoulder, opening his eyes.

"The morning bell's yet to ring," Grimaud says, having no such time restrictions. "Are you needed, Captain?" he asks. "Does duty call?"

"Always," Athos answers, smiling up to Grimaud. He arches his eyebrows. "Petty criminals and bandits don't just arrest themselves," he adds wryly, playful despite the subject at hand.

Petty? Well, that might be insulting. Grimaud, after all, is hardly petty. He is a mastermind of crime and manipulation, who smirks. "You go arrest such petty criminals, Musketeer." He reaches over, taking up the bottle of oil, offering it to Athos if he wants. 

Athos will take it, yes. The other bottle is less than half-full now, and he expects he'll be using it quite often, from now on. He gives Grimaud a kiss, slow and lingering, before sitting up and trying to locate his trousers.

As Athos dresses, Grimaud will lie there, naked and unashamed, Athos's fine handkerchief bloody on his ribs. Athos gives him a look that encompasses how he feels about that: definitely tempted and yet duty-bound to be on time at the Garrison. Also, a little concerned about Grimaud's wound. 

When he's put on everything except his pauldron and his weapon belt, Athos sits back on the bed, peeling away the handkerchief to look at the stitches. They're holding up admirably well but the bandage needs to be changed. "You should dress these with a clean piece of fabric," he says, quietly, and then arches an eyebrow at Grimaud. "Don't tear my shirt."

"I give the orders, Musketeer," Grimaud replies with a smirk, making Athos arch an eyebrow. He doesn't normally take orders, except from Treville or the King. And now, Grimaud too, it seems, because he's been good at making Athos do things he didn't even know he wanted to do. 

Grimaud grips Athos's doublet to pull him in for a biting kiss, as if to remind him to whom he belongs. Athos goes down with a groan, catching himself on both hands and kissing back, opening easily to the harsh press of Grimaud's lips and teeth. He quietly curses against Grimaud's jaw and makes himself sit up again, frowning at the way his body is already reacting to this. 

"You're trying to make me late," he accuses and he sounds more amused than offended, though he stands up and takes a step back carefully. Grimaud grins up to him, smug. "Will you send word?" Athos asks fondly, putting his weapon belt back on, and Grimaud nods.

“Try not to wreak too much havoc," Athos states dryly, giving Grimaud a little grin before he unlocks the door and steps out. 

It's an uneventful day for Athos, patrolling and looking into a theft at a bakery. He doesn’t receive word from Grimaud but after the evening bell the man comes himself, listening at the door before he lets himself in, closing the door behind himself just as quietly. 

Athos is at his desk and doesn't turn around, merely continuing what he's doing. He's reviewing the accounts of the Garrison, scratching a number here and there. Constance is very good at managing their funds. "You're going to get caught sneaking into the Garrison, one day," he points out, listening as Grimaud discards his weapon belt. 

"And then the captain will have to deal with me," Grimaud notes, stepping closer. "What would you do, Captain, with a miscreant burglar?"

"Handle it  _ personally _ ," Athos answers, sounding amused. He finishes what he is doing in the heavy, leather-bound register before he turns around, arching his eyebrows at Grimaud. "How are your stitches?" he inquires.

"You'd best look, to make sure I'm not infected," Grimaud tells him, hip resting on the heavy wood desk. "What if I'm sick? What then?"

Athos turns in his seat, one corner of his lips curving up. "I'm beginning to think you enjoy it," he answers, leaning in to pull Grimaud's doublet open. "You'll stay here," he adds, quietly.  _ And I'll take care of you _ , he does not say, though it is implied. He tugs on his shirt and lifts it to look at the wound, slowly unwinding the bandage there to inspect the stitches.

Grimaud allows it, watching Athos’s steady hands touch around the wound gently. Perhaps he does enjoy the concern; it is, after all, an entirely new sensation. He arches his eyebrows when Athos gives him a flat look as he realizes Grimaud hasn’t changed the bandage all day, Athos’s handkerchief still pressed to the wound. He stands up to get ointment and a fresh bandage, gently dabbing the stitches and dressing the wound again. The stitches are looking good, healing slowly but surely, with no infection that Athos can see. 

“There,” Athos says when he’s done, sounding relieved. Grimaud cocks his head to the side. He’ll live, then. Perhaps he is truly too stubborn to die. When Athos leans up, though, Grimaud catches his chin to kiss him. There is passion in that kiss, as Grimaud might even have missed him.

Athos kisses back, slow and easy, one hand coming to rest on the nape of Grimaud's neck. He missed this too. He might even have thought about it during the day, whenever he was bored. He won’t tell Grimaud about it, but he thinks the man would be pleased to know he managed to distract him from his duty, even for just a few seconds. 

It's a good enough kiss, though, that it leaves Grimaud to lick the taste from his lower lip, his forehead rested against Athos's. "I want you, Musketeer."

The words sound less like an order and more like an offer this time and Athos smiles, his eyes dark. He puts his hands on Grimaud's hips and playfully marches him towards the bed, arching his eyebrows at him.

With his chin up, Grimaud looks down his nose at Athos and lets himself be led. "Could another Musketeer walk in, Captain? Find you with your trousers down?"

"They usually knock," Athos answers wryly, though the idea seems to amuse him. He knows Grimaud locked the door. 

"How polite," Grimaud replies, taking another kiss and another, already pulling Athos’s chemise from his trousers. It doesn't take much to focus him entirely on Athos, though: his taste, his scent, how his skin feels under his fingers.

"Well, I hope they'll knock," Athos amends once they are both shirtless, grinning. He gets down on his knees between Grimaud's legs, and then settles there. "This doesn't offer much plausible deniability."

Oh, but how it makes Grimaud's cock hard. He runs his fingers through Athos's hair and urges his head to the side. "Put your mouth on me," he murmurs, his eyes dark and warm at the same time. "Musketeer."

Athos holds Grimaud's eyes as he reaches out to tug at his fly, unbuckling his trousers. He slips his hands inside Grimaud's underwear and palms his cock, his lips parting when he finds him hard. He licks his upper lip and leans in to stroke his mouth along Grimaud's cock slowly.

Not pulling or pushing, but just keeping in his hand in Athos's hair, Grimaud watches avidly. 

He slouches lower, widening his legs in a silent plea for more, making Athos look up and grin. 

He likes doing this, Athos has found, as perhaps made obvious by the ease with which he offers it. Going down to his knees in that alley was a bit of a revelation, though it was one fraught with danger at the time. 

He takes the tip of Grimaud's cock into his mouth and suckles, his eyes falling half shut, even as Grimaud's hands tighten, his hips flexing to try to get more as Athos swallows a few times, breathing steadily, and sets out to bob his head, sucking.

"Your mouth, Musketeer." Giving a tug, Grimaud pulls Athos just that little bit deeper. Back, then deeper again. More a nudging than heavy control and Athos groans, closing his eyes. He’s beginning to gag but he doesn’t complain, going deeper on the next stroke, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks. A shiver goes down his spine at how breathless Grimaud sounds as he lets go of his hair, intentionally gripping the bedding on each side of his hips so he can tug harder without risking to hurt Athos. 

Dark eyes flicking up, Athos does his best to give Grimaud what he wants. He quickens his pace and takes him as deep as he can manage, his hands stroking over Grimaud's thighs and belly. He hums and swallows to keep his gag reflex at bay, his cheeks flushed red with arousal.

When he comes, Grimaud just groans low in his throat, his head falling back, weight heavy on his hands. It takes them both a while to recover, Grimaud panting in pleasure and Athos swallowing to clear his throat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His cheek comes to rest against Grimaud’s thigh and he closes his eyes, feeling oddly calm despite the way his own erection is painfully confined inside his trousers.

"That's how you'd treat a burglar, Captain of the Musketeers?" Grimaud asks, leaning forward to brush a thumb over that swollen lower lip, prompting Athos to nip at him gently. 

"Only you. I suspect I might get too many repeat offenders, otherwise," Athos states wryly. 

"Would you expect the same?" Grimaud asks after a beat. He’s not adverse to it, but he wants to hear Athos say it. 

Tilting his head to the side, Athos considers Grimaud with dark eyes. "If you want to," he answers, curious. If Grimaud doesn’t, they can do something else. Or nothing at all, if Lucien is feeling cruel. Athos will take it all. 

"Wanting to hardly sounds like a demand, " Grimaud notes, still watching the Musketeer's face.

"I don't demand," Athos points out, slowly. He's never given Grimaud any orders, assuming he would not take kindly to it. The man has his own discipline, but Athos doesn’t think he would thrive at being directed, not in the way he himself does. "Should I?"

"Life doesn't hand you things, Musketeer," Grimaud reminds Athos. "If you want something, take it." He tugs Athos up to the bed and down onto it, onto his back before pulling his trousers open to get to his cock.

Athos is more of the 'if you want something, earn it' school, but he merely hums, spreading his legs to give Grimaud room. "Is that what you did with me?" he inquires, eyebrows arching. He's not upset, just curious. "Wanted me, so you took me?"

Grimaud's silence is an answer in itself. It leaves Athos thoughtful but not upset, running his fingers along his scruffy jaw. He struggles to lean up when Grimaud nuzzles him, watching him with darkened eyes. 

Then Grimaud’s mouth on him surprises a groan out of Athos, and he falls back on the bed, both his hands reaching for Grimaud's head, fingers slipping through his hair. He's so hard already Grimaud's mouth feels like heaven, warm and wet around him. He doesn't try to hide what this does to him: he arches on the bed, his hips canting up and his fingers tightening in Grimaud's hair. What Grimaud is doing is making his mind go entirely blank with pleasure, his whole body coiling tight with need, getting nearer and nearer to his breaking point.

When he gets Athos right to that edge, Grimaud tightens his grip at the base of his cock and pulls back, eyes dark and glinting. "Tell me what you want," he murmurs.

Athos shivers, his legs jerking around Grimaud’s shoulders. He forces himself to lift his head and meet Grimaud's dark eyes, his lips parting. "Make me come," he requests, his voice low. He's not coy about it, but these are things Athos has seldom said so plainly before. Grimaud hasn’t asked him to beg so he won’t, but he knows Grimaud is fully aware that he  _ would _ . 

The corner of Grimaud's mouth turns up in a smirk. "Yes, Captain," he replies, his head cocked to the side. Without blinking or looking away, he leans down to flick his tongue at the slit of Athos's cock before sucking him down again, ruthlessly working to make him come.

It doesn't take Athos long to come like this, striving to keep his hips down, his fingers tight in Grimaud's hair, his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth open.

After, he relaxes on the bed with a quiet hum, slowly catching his breath, his heartbeat returning to normal. He shivers and stretches his legs, using the hand he has in Grimaud's hair to tug him up. He doesn't kiss him though, merely looks at him: Grimaud's dark eyes, his oddly delicate lashes, his strong brow, the line of his jaw under his beard.

Grimaud seems content to lie there too, gazing back, his hand on Athos's hip. He stays still as Athos leans up and kisses the strange scar above his eyebrow, gently.

"Are you staying until the morning bell?" Athos asks, his voice quiet.

"Would you have me?" Grimaud asks, his voice low but arch. He can't help it, though he is sincere in asking.

"Yes," Athos answers, simply, holding Grimaud's eyes. There's a small chance Grimaud will be seen in the morning, but Athos is ready to face it should that happen.

Then Grimaud will stay. He lies there a while longer, only getting up to clean up and eat a bit of bread, then he settles, naked in Athos's bed, once again facing Athos in the candlelight, tracing over warm skin with his calloused fingertips.

For hands that have hurt and killed many, Athos finds that Grimaud's can be surprisingly gentle on his skin. Grimaud’s fingers are more calloused than Athos's too, which are only marked by swordsmanship, not a life of labour and toil. Seeing Grimaud there in his bed, naked and relaxed, makes him thoughtful, thinking back on the first time he was in his room, his eyebrows furrowing a little.

"You're thinking, Musketeer," Grimaud notes, sensing that easily enough. "What vexes you, eh?" he asks, brushing his thumb at that v between Athos's brows, smoothing it over.

Athos gives a small shrug. "I was thinking about the first time you were here." He arches an eyebrow, sounding wry. "You tried to kill me."

Conjuring that memory, Grimaud shrugs a little, too. "What brought this up?"

Oddly enough, the lack of apology makes Athos chuckle. "I prefer this," he points out, amused. "I was trying to remember what I thought when I first saw you."

It probably isn't surprising that Grimaud is not one for introspection. Clearly, he too prefers this, though he does ask, "and?"

Athos grins at Grimaud's no-nonsense reply. "I thought you were suspicious," he answers, his eyebrows arching. "Probably dangerous." That turned out to be an understatement.

Another smirk. Grimaud is that and so much more. He asks, both sincerely and archly as is his way, "Do you still think that?"

"Now I know it to be true," Athos corrects, his lips curving up in amusement. "But you're not only that." He doesn't elaborate, but seems rather fond.

There was a minute stiffness that came when Athos first spoke, then Grimaud relaxes just that little bit again. He shifts, settling a bit closer. "And you, Musketeer are more than your duty and your loyalty to the King."

Athos' nose scrunches up a little at the answer. "Am I intended to take this as a compliment?" he asks, teasingly.

Grimaud shrugs, smirking yet again, eyes moving over Athos's face and its increasingly familiar lines. "Duty and loyalty are boring," he replies, to see if Athos will take the bait.

It earns him an unimpressed look. "They're not meant to be entertaining.” Athos doesn't seem upset, but he knows Grimaud well-enough to be aware that a debate on the matter would lead him nowhere.

"Life isn't entertaining," Grimaud says by way of agreement. He reaches over, running his thumb along Athos's cheekbone, content to be quiet like this. To experience something so very rare: peace.

Athos is well-aware that this is highly unusual for Grimaud, and should be treasured. He stays still as Grimaud's eyes slip shut, watching him promptly fall asleep, looking relaxed and comfortable in Athos' bed. He smiles and leans in to press a light kiss to Grimaud's forehead, leaning up to blow out the candle before he settles for the night too.


	10. Damage Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a few awful seconds Athos sees Grimaud and thinks well, this is it. Whatever was between them, Grimaud has chosen Feron, and sold him off for something better.

Well before the morning bell comes a pounding on Athos’s door. As he knocks, Aramis calls, "Athos, it's me. Treville has sent - your door is locked. Athos?"

Of course, Grimaud has awoken at the first knock, and he’s now sitting up in Athos’s bed, tense even as he presses a hand to his injury. He's trapped. He was careless the day before, he let himself believe that he could have a peaceful night, and now he’s paying for it. He slides from the bed, reaching not for his trousers but for his weapons.

Athos jerks awake too, blinking as he assesses the situation, his eyes going from Grimaud who is reaching for his weapons, a snarl already building on his lips, to the noise coming from the door. Standing up, he reaches for Grimaud's wrist, meeting his eyes calmly. "I’m here," he calls back, for Aramis. "I'll be with you in a minute."

It takes all of his control for Grimaud not to pull away, scowling as he meets Athos’s eyes. He then raises his brows. What does Athos think will happen now?

"We need to be leaving soon, Athos," Aramis notes through the door.

"I'll meet you in the courtyard, Aramis," Athos says pointedly, shaking his head at Grimaud. "Stay here until we leave,” he whispers to his lover. “You might be able to slip away unseen, it is still early."

Grimaud growls low in his throat - a warning sound - then he steps away, looking around before ducking behind Athos's wardrobe. 

Outside, Aramis and Porthos step back, but they don't leave. There is much to be suspicious of in this situation, and they will wait for a moment to see if Athos is ready. 

Getting dressed as quickly as he can, Athos watches Grimaud attempt to disappear in the shadow of his wardrobe. "Or you can stay here until tonight," he offers, quietly. He knows that probably won't appeal to Grimaud very much. "I have books," he adds, as he puts his pauldron back on. Everything he owns is in this room, but he's ready to let Grimaud stay here all day and potentially look through it if it settles this problem.

If boredom weren't an issue, all the information Grimaud could find might be worth it. He seems to disappear behind the wardrobe, a knife in hand. He irrationally resents those who came knocking for ruining a moment so special and so rare. "Now isn't exactly the time to talk, is it? He nods toward the door. Go already, Musketeer. 

"Don't stab anyone," Athos whispers/hisses at him, arching his eyebrows. Then he finishes getting dressed and steps out, frowning at Aramis and Porthos.

"Has something happened?" he inquires, carefully closing the door behind him.

Craning his neck, Porthos tries to look over his shoulder into the dark room before the door closes. "Everything all right?"

"Orders from Treville," Aramis says, trying to be at least a little more subtle about it.

Athos gives Porthos a look but he doesn't check, trusting in Grimaud's ability to conceal himself in the shadows. "I was sleeping," he explains simply, before focusing on what Aramis is saying. "What does Treville need?" he says, stepping towards the courtyard.

In the room, Grimaud pads closer quietly to listen at the door.

Aramis hands over the orders, though he admittedly didn't look closely enough to check if it really is Treville's seal or if it was used by someone else.

Frowning, Athos breaks the seal, reading through the letter quickly. It's an odd assignment, that much is sure, but not unheard of. "I am expected in Tours to supervise the next shipment of wheat coming to Paris," he reads, slowly. "You will join me on the next day for back-up, as Treville needs you to fetch the ambassador in his castle in Melun."

Something tweaks Grimaud's interest; he listens closely. Feron has been on about something lately. Could this be it?

Sharing a look, Aramis and Porthos nod and go to check on the readiness of their horses. "d'Artagnan isn't to go with you?" Aramis asks over his shoulder.

"He's staying here," Athos answers, quickly getting his horse ready. It's unusual for Treville to split them like this, but desperate times might call for desperate measures.

He spares a thought for Grimaud, trapped in his bedroom until the evening as he gets on his horse. He nods to Aramis and Porthos before setting his horse to an easy canter, heading towards the South Gate of the city.

Grimaud waits for a few minutes for them to be gone, before he slips out. The Garrison is already fairly busy, and it takes a great deal of effort to get out without being spotted. Then he rides to Feron and finds out the plan, which seems quite simple: send the Musketeers on missions all over the country, and take them out one at a time. It's a simple plan, clever in its stark approach to the situation. Treville's seal is not difficult to fake and Musketeers aren't known to contest orders. With a growl, Grimaud takes off at a gallop.

As he approaches Tours, Athos is violently ambushed by a group of men. He escapes them for a long time and then fights when he can escape no more, taking a good number down before he's struck in the face with the butt of a musket, and falls to the ground. 

They drag him to their encampment, not too far away. He's unlucky enough that they want information from him before killing him, and wakes up to being kicked in the ribs.

Between blows, Athos understands that what they want to know has to do with the war against Spain and the peace negotiations. He does know quite a lot about the peace treaties and the state of the war but his lips are sealed, his teeth gritted against the pain. It will take more than this to break him, Athos thinks, as his vision goes grey around the edges. There is an ugly bruise blooming on his cheekbone and his lips are bloody, but he doesn't even make a sound when his tormentors kick him again.

***

Grimaud’s horse foams at the mouth before finally giving out. Grimaud steals another, not stopping until he gets to where he knows they will be holding Athos. He lets his hood fall and climbs off the horse in the courtyard, not seeing Athos yet, his gut feeling unaccountably tight.

The leader of Feron’s men appears at the sound of galloping, raising a brow when he sees Grimaud. "We weren't expecting you."

"Do you think Feron would trust such an event just to you?" Grimaud sneers. "Has the Musketeer arrived?"

The man nods toward one of the cottages.

Grimaud is tempted to shoot the man right then, but that would kill his advantage so he plays his part for now, walking in that direction.

He steps in just in time to see one of the men punch Athos in the face again, sending him reeling in his chair, blood dripping from his lips. 

"That's  _ enough _ !" Grimaud yells, drawing his pistol. "How're you to get any information if he's not able to talk?" He sneers with disgust, fighting how tight his chest feels.

"Go," he says to Athos's tormentors. " _ Go _ ! I'll handle this." With some grumbling, they skulk out.

For a few awful seconds Athos sees Grimaud and thinks well, this is it. Whatever was between them, Grimaud has chosen Feron, and sold him off for something better.

Then they are alone, and Grimaud is on his knees in front of him, pulling him up, trying to meet his eyes. "Stay with me, Musketeer," he hisses. "We have a fight ahead of us."

"What are you doing?" Athos inquires dizzily, his bound hands clutching at Grimaud's doublet. "They’re Feron's men. Yours."

"They are not my men," Grimaud grumbles. "Can you fight? There are too many for just one of us." He cuts the rope binding Athos's wrists. "I will shout and they will come and we will act. Are you ready? We have to kill them all." If they don’t, Feron will find out and everything will only get worse.

"A minute," Athos requests, closing his eyes. The world is still spinning around him and his chest hurts where he was kicked. He breathes slowly, clinging to Grimaud's doublet. "Are you sure you want to do this?" he asks, quietly. The consequences for Grimaud could be dire.

Grimaud nods, showing no hesitation. He gives Athos a bare moment and then stands, pulling him to his feet. "Take my sword," he says, letting Athos reach for his scabbard. He will have his pistol and knives. Meeting Athos's eyes, he raises his brow, taking his measure. When Athos gives him a small nod he turns and faces the door, shouting for the men.

It's easy to shoot the first one, which startles the two who follow. Of course, the gunfire will draw the others - eight in total - but it is worth it to get rid of three men nearly at once.

Athos stays behind Grimaud, helping him make quick work of the three men that came rushing in. Then out into the open they go, Grimud grabbing Athos by the collar to hold him up and fool those who are coming, if only for a moment. When he lets go, he propels Athos forward to fight.

And fight Athos does, though he can barely see through one of his eyes and his chest hurts every time he moves. It's a dirty, ugly fight and both Athos and Grimaud are cut and hit, stepping on the bodies when they fall.

In the end, they are the only two still standing, with carnage around them and blood on their hands. Athos sways but he doesn't fall, taking a slow breath. He's only sustained a few minor injuries during the fight, and his first instinct is to look Grimaud over to make sure the blood on his clothes is not his.

"I will tell Feron you escaped," Grimaud tells him as he wipes the blood from his own cheek. He steps closer, looking deep into Athos's eyes. "Check your orders, Captain. I can't guarantee that he won't try this again."

Athos stays still, trying not to let his knees buckle. He doesn't answer anything though he hears and understands what Grimaud is saying, looking back into his eyes. "You saved my life," he finally tells Grimaud, his tone quiet but intent.

In this moment, Grimaud cocks his head. "You need rest," he says, reaching for Athos's elbow. "Can you ride?"

"Lucien," Athos says, and he uses Grimaud's name on purpose, knowing what it means between them. He takes Grimaud's wrist in his hand, his eyes a little too wide. "I owe you."

Where Athos's eyes are too wide, Grimaud's narrow. He covers Athos's hand with his. "Don't get yourself killed, Athos," he replies, voice sharp. He takes a step closer until they are nearly nose to nose. "Stay with me." His eyebrows go up as if in question: agreed?

Leaning in, Athos holds Grimaud’s hand in his though they are both sticky with blood. He nods, slowly. "I need to go back to Paris and tell the others," he says, trying to find his bearings. "They might be in danger too."

Nodding curtly, Grimaud goes to check out the horses of the men who will no longer need them. Athos shouldn’t ride right now but they need to leave, and fast. He brings back the best hose, watching Athos carefully. "Come then, Musketeer. Let's get you back to Paris."

He'll help Athos up first, then climb on in front of him, saying, "Hold on to me." 

Athos adjusts, wrapping his arms around Grimaud's waist and resting his aching cheekbone against the cool leather of his doublet. He holds up well enough when the horse starts moving, closing his eyes and tightening his grip on Grimaud, who takes his hands to wrap them in his belts. That way, if Athos falls asleep, he won't fall off. 

It'll be at least four hours to get back, and even longer when Grimaud veers off the main road to keep out of sight of Feron's men. Surely more will be coming to gloat at what they hope is the death of the captain of the Musketeers.

Athos is only dimly aware of this, hanging to Grimaud, his forehead resting between his shoulderblades. He feels safe there, even when Grimaud smells of blood, gunpowder and sweat. He doesn't really sleep, too high on pain and adrenaline, but he lets his mind drift as they ride, gritting his teeth against the ache in his ribs.

When he opens his eyes again night is falling and their horse walks slowly, its head low. Grimaud leads it to a copse of trees, looking around sharply. "We'll rest here."

The truth is that Athos would normally argue against stopping so that they may reach Paris faster but he knows he needs to rest, and so does the overtaxed horse. He nods against Grimaud's back, straightening up and slowly dismounting.

They are tucked far enough away from the main road that Grimaud feels safe starting a small fire. He leans Athos against a tree, making sure he's settled before he tells him that he's going to get some food and some water for both them and the horse. He efficiently traps a rabbit and skins it, keeping an eye on Athos as he does. 

Watching Grimaud, Athos sits still for a while, just breathing, before he sets out to remove his pauldron and doublet, wanting to assess the damage done to his ribs. His skin is red and black and blue under his shirt but there isn't a lot of blood. His ribs feel tender but not broken, and so do his cheekbone and jaw. He doesn't have a mirror to see his face, but from the ache, he assumes it's just as ugly as his chest.

When the rabbit meat is cooked, Grimaud sits next to Athos with it and a knife so that they can share. "I think you'll be alright, Musketeer," he says gruffly, relieved by this.

"I will," he states, watching Grimaud cut the rabbit. "And you?" he asks, sitting up to look at Grimaud carefully. The man has a tendency to conceal injuries, he knows. "Did you get hurt in the fight?"

True to form, Grimaud shrugs. He might have taken on a few cuts, but there's nothing broken. He holds out the meat for Athos to eat. "I'm fine," he tells Athos. "Eat. Drink."

Athos takes his word for it but vows to check for himself later on, and the look he gives Grimaud makes that clear. "Thank you," he says, drinking from Grimaud's gourd and slowly eating his share of rabbit. "Feron counterfeited Treville's seal," he states, quietly. "If I can prove it, Treville will bring him down."

"Or he stole it. He won't go easily, your Minister needs to watch his back," Grimaud warns. 

Athos is well-aware, and Treville shares his concern. They will have to be cautious and he nods to show he understands. Bringing Feron down will be an arduous task, even if Grimaud does not run interference as he has in the past. Athos watches him carefully, aware that Lucien has made a dangerous choice today, in betraying Feron and rescuing him.

"I'll see what I can find out,” Grimaud adds after a few seconds, making Athos frown. 

"Are you working with us, now?" he asks, very carefully wording it. "With me?"

"I'm not a Musketeer, if that's what you're asking," Grimaud retorts, bristling at the very idea. "I will do what I can to keep you alive."

The words bring a slow grin to Athos’s face, pulling at his bruised lip. "You'd make a very poor Musketeer in some aspects, and a very good one in others," he assesses, his voice low. But this is an oath, Athos realises, and he takes it very seriously. "I shall do the same," he offers, clasping Grimaud's hand in his to seal it.

With a low sound, Grimaud uses their linked hands to draw close enough for a kiss, a relatively gentle one to not hurt Athos more. It stings but Athos doesn't care, kissing back intently. He owes his life to Grimaud twice over now, and that is a stronger bond than he ever thought he'd be able to share with anyone but his best friends.

"Rest, Musketeer. We need to ride early," Grimaud whispers. He rests his forehead to Athos's then leans back. He'll tend the fire and keep watch. It won't be the first night he's gone without sleep. He can keep busy cleaning and loading his pistol, in case he needs it. 

The noise lulls Athos to sleep, his hat tilted down over his swollen face. It's a quiet night. Grimaud listens to and watches the owls, the squirrels, the occasional sound of horses hooves. No one comes for them, and he sits keeping watch all night. 

Athos sleeps, but fitfully. He wakes up often, jerking upright and hissing at the pain in his ribs. He looks over to Grimaud each time, watching his face in the dark, the line of his profile against the glowing embers of the fire. He's more deeply asleep come morning, his eyes blinking open as Grimaud strokes gentle fingers through his hair. 

"We need to go," Grimaud says. Before it gets too light and Feron's other men head off to kill the other Musketeers. Athos nods, slowly stretching his legs and arms and feeling his ribs. It hurts worse than the day before but Athos has taken enough punches and kicks to know it means he is healing. He stands, accepts a piece of rabbit from Grimaud, and goes to ready their horse.

The horse looks none too pleased to have to carry them both again, but life isn't fair, is it, horse? 

Grimaud helps Athos up, then climbs on, once again fastening Athos's wrists in his belts so he can rest if he's able. Off they go to Paris. 

"I need to let you walk from the city gate," he tells Athos. The rest needn't be stated. Athos knows Grimaud means to storm Feron with the idea that he escaped because of the incompetence of his men, and that before Grimaud could even get there.

"Before that,” Athos says, sternly. “Let me walk from the woods by the South gate. You can't risk being seen with me.”

Grimaud nods and once they reach the woods, stops their horse and helps Athos down. “Can you make it from here?" 

“Less than an hour's walk, to the Garrison," Athos says, agreeing. He feels sturdier today, ready to fight all day to make sure his friends are safe. He stands close for a while, his hand still holding Grimaud's. "Be careful. Send word if you need me." He pats Grimaud’s sword where it still rests, fastened to Athos’s otherwise empty weapon belt. “I’ll take care of your sword.”

“Go,” Grimaud says and Athos nods, hurrying back to the Garrison. He hitches a ride in a wagon and gets there early enough to catch Porthos and Aramis before they leave. After a quick explanation, they rally d'Artagnan and gallop to the castle to warn Treville.

***

In the darker corner of the Louvre, there is shouting. A lot of shouting. About incompetence, about unnecessary risks, about a lack of communication. "There are better ways to do this," Grimaud threatens Feron with. "This will make you weak," he hisses. "Let me do this."

After some initial bluster, Feron simpers his agreement. That lets Grimaud slip out just as the Musketeers arrive. He glances from under his hood and keeps going.

Athos's Grimaud sense tingles a little but he ignores it, not meaning to draw attention to him if he is indeed there. They meet up with Treville and explain the whole situation to him. As expected, Treville is outraged and angry and goes to confront Feron at once.

In the end, though it is obvious his seal was forged and no one could do this inside the palace except Feron, there is no real evidence against him. As usual. It makes Athos fume at the man's obvious lying and scheming, even as they all ride back to the Garrison.

Early in the evening, Athos retires to his rooms, washing and getting into bed slowly, trying to find a position that doesn't aggravate the ache in his ribs and mostly failing. He lifts his head when he hears Grimaud pick his lock, his eyebrows arched. "I'm getting you a key," he says, quietly, slowly sitting up, giving Lucien a small smile.

"I have some medicine," Grimaud offers. "It could help you sleep.” He sits on the edge of Athos's bed, watching how his face has swollen and darkened. 

"Where did you get it?" Athos asks quietly, beckoning Grimaud closer.

"It is Feron's," Grimaud tells him and Athos makes a face, unsure he wants to use the drug Feron is so addicted to. "He needs it more than I do," he states somberly.

Another shrug Either way, Grimaud starts to take off his weapons. "Do I get my sword back?" he asks, amusement at the corners of his mouth, making Athos grin in return. 

"I even cleaned and polished it," he states, almost playfully. 

Grimaud arches a brow and offers a small smile. "Had some free time, did you?"

"Hardly," Athos answers, with a snort. "We spent all day trying to prove Feron was behind this." And failed, as Grimaud probably already knows. 

Shrugging off his doublet, Grimaud sets out to remove his dirty boots so he can get into bed. "I have him in control." They both know, though, that Feron is fussy and fickle and in that way, dangerous.

"Treville is working to bring him down," Athos says, though he doesn't really want to talk about Feron at the moment. He sits behind Grimaud on the bed, slipping his hands under his shirt to stroke over his chest gently. 

The touch makes Grimaud shiver, even if he tries not to show it. His boots land on the floor with a thud before he pulls off his shirt and leans, finally, into Athos's heat, arms slipping around him, carefully.

Athos's chest is black and blue now, some of the bruises already turning to yellow. He welcomes Grimaud with a hum, stroking up his arms to his shoulders, taking a moment to check him for injuries, even minor. There had been no time before and he had worried, knowing Grimaud's tendency to leave even bad injuries unattended.

There are a few cuts and scratches and Athos bends his head to kiss a bruise on Grimaud's shoulder. He's grateful for what Grimaud did for him, and not afraid to show it. 

"Are you sure you don't wish for medicine? Can you lie comfortably like this?" Grimaud's hand splays over Athos's chest.

'Comfortably' may be a stretch, but Athos can lie down, and he pulls Grimaud with him as he goes, only hissing a little. "What does Feron even take?" he asks, curiously.

"A paste. Made from poppy flowers." Grimaud settles in, quite content to lie here like this, relatively safe and quiet. "He is sick," which Athos knows. "And weak." Which Athos knows too. The poppy tincture creates a need in Feron that weakens an already weak character.

Athos hums in acknowledgement. He took that once, when Aramis sewed a rather nasty wound on his thigh. He was completely out of it for hours and Aramis still makes fun of him for some of the things he said under the influence. 

"I think I'll take the pain," he says quietly, stroking his fingers through Grimaud's hair, just once, before resting his hand on his back.

The hand is warm and present and it makes Grimaud's eyelids flutter closed before opening again."What did your Minister say?"

"He said that this showed intolerable escalation," he answers, quietly. Feron had never tried to kill them so directly, before. "He will talk to the King. The Queen is on our side, as well." Not that it will help as she has fallen out of favour.

Athos tentatively at the back of Grimaud's head and is rewarded by another slow blink, Lucien’s eyes dipping shut for a second. It feels a little like trying to pet a tiger that has somehow taken a liking to you. 

Grimaud's lip curls. "The King won't turn against his brother."

"He won't," Athos confirms, somberly. "But Treville insisted on talking to him about it, before he undercuts him."

Talk has never accomplished much, in Grimaud's experience. Action is the way to go. He doesn't wish to fight now, though, relaxing under the attentions, as much as it seems to go against his nature. "Feron won't act without telling me," he says, which can be its own assurance, perhaps.

"Good. We'll always be one step ahead of him," he answers, the corners of his lips curving up as he feels Grimaud relax more and more against him.

Leaning closer, Grimaud ducks in to press bristled kisses to Athos's neck, mindful of his bruises.

Athos welcomes him, his hands stroking down Grimaud's back and settling on his hips, pulling him closer. The bristly kisses are very pleasant, sending a thrill down his spine and making him tilt his head to the side with a quiet hum.

"You don't seem to be that injured, Musketeer," Grimaud whispers, his tone deadpan. He slips a hand lower over the curve of Athos's buttock, urging his leg over his hip.

Despite the ache in his ribs, the words make Athos laugh, quiet but true. "I've been faking it to be coddled," he answers, just as wryly. His hips cant up at the touch, pressing against Grimaud's as he wraps one leg around him, pulling him close. His fingers slip into Grimaud's hair again, pulling him in for a kiss.

It’s a careful kiss, not exactly gentle, but mindful of Athos’s split lip. Grimaud’s hands stroke over Athos’s body, slowly. "Do you want me, Athos?" he asks, voice still low, lip to lip.

"Yes," Athos says, and they move together with an easy familiarity, careful to avoid bruises and pains.

After, Grimaud holds him tight as he breathes into Athos's neck before helping him settle on the bed and falling in behind him, messy but content for the moment. "Sleep, Musketeer.”

Athos makes a small noise of agreement, still tingling from pleasure, the ache in his ribs a little duller now. He sleeps comfortably enough, only waking up once, smiling at the sight of Grimaud sprawled next to him.

By morning, he wakes early to Grimaud sitting on the bed, fully dressed. “Good morning,” he says, rolling onto his back carefully and staying still as Grimaud inspects him, his fingers ghosting over bruised skin. 

"Morning. Don't do anything rash today, Musketeer. You still need to heal," Grimaud warns, his tone arch but fond. 

"I'll do what I must," Athos points out, and he pulls Grimaud in for a kiss, stroking across his back.

When the kiss breaks, Grimaud hesitates. He would stay, but there is already the tell-tale sound of movement in the Garrison and he must escape while he can.

If the situation was different, Athos would try to hold him back. He might even cling to his belt and grin up to him, playfully pulling him back in bed. But he knows Grimaud needs to make a quick escape so he merely gives him another kiss and lets him go, nodding to him as Grimaud gets his sword back and slips out, as quietly as he always does.


	11. What Is Bred in the Bone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos watches Grimaud in the candlelight, slowly reaching up to touch the scar above his eyebrow. "How did you get this?"
> 
> There is just that slightest flinch at the scar being touched, but Grimaud doesn't pull away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mentions of sexual slavery, as depicted in canon

The following weeks are busy. Athos spends his days trying to prove that Feron attempted to kill all of them, and his nights tucked against Grimaud. He's not unhappy but these are eventful times indeed. And then, abruptly, Treville gives up on Feron and sends them on a more pressing matter.

Someone is trying to bring the underground slave market to Paris. There have been rumors: girls from the brothels told Aramis about foreign women forced into sexual slavery; a merchant told Porthos about men from the east of Africa bought in Paris and working in the fields. But nothing concrete until they manage to stumble upon one of those illegal sales. The Musketeers swarm the place to free the slaves and jail the attending buyers, but most of the merchants manage to escape.

They hear about another sale a few days later and Athos is tasked with attending to see who is organizing it. They make him take off his Musketeer uniform and put on more aristocratic clothes, pretending to be a comte interested in buying slave labour. That is a repugnant role to play, but he vows to try his best. 

He joins the sale at the last minute, sitting with aristocrats, merchants and a few hooded figures. It quickly grows obvious that, while many illegal things are sold there (Athos has never seen this many objects intended for sexual gratification), no slaves are on display. He'll stay until the end, still, to avoid drawing attention. 

Amidst all this, Athos doesn't spot Grimaud, as the man is simply too good at concealing himself. He is there too, monitoring what is being bought and sold, bidding here and there not to appear suspicious but making sure he doesn't actually win anything. There are many things to buy: forbidden books, drugs, and weapons. He takes note of who buys what and why, committing it to memory. 

When the sale is over, Athos goes to talk to the merchants, perfect in the part of the disdainful aristocrat, turning his nose up at the sale and inquiring where he might buy items of a more 'living' quality. He makes himself leer as he says it, and feels a little relieved when most of the merchants seem aghast by what he's implying. He's leaving when one of them slips him a card with a place and a date, arching his eyebrows without a word.

Athos nods and pockets it, jumping into the elaborate carriage he came in, borrowed from the palace.

From behind a tree, Grimaud watches all this, his eyebrows arched under his hood. When he sees Athos leave, he notes where he is headed, then he does his own investigation, asking the less savory characters where to be and when, what to expect.

With information and a specific purchase, he sends a note that he will be by the Garrison later, and heads for the Louvres. He needs to question Feron about the slave trafficking and his role in it.

It is late when Athos gets back to the Garrison, as he had to play the aristocrat all evening, attending an exhausting formal dinner, discreetly inquiring about slaves to a few members of the nobility they suspect are involved. One of them is foolish enough to boast about it to him. He'll find his mansion in the countryside searched the very next day, his slaves freed and a substantial fine left for him to pay.

He's quite tired of playing the aristocrat all day, but he still lets Aramis and d'Artagnan buy him a drink and make fun of him. He only sees Grimaud's note when he gets to his office, writing a quick letter for Treville before he hurries back to his room.

Grimaud is sat on Athos's bed when he gets there, leaning back against the headboard. He is whittling a piece of wood in the dark, ankles crossed. His purchase - a piece of lewdly carved glass - sits on its velvet bag on Athos's desk. He looks up at the entrance, relaxed but alert, going back to his whittling when he sees that it's Athos.

Athos gets inside his room, his eyes taking a second to accommodate to the murk and make out Grimaud on his bed. He closes the door before getting to his candlestick and lighting a candle. "I only just got your note," he states as an apology. "We are.. investigating, at the moment," he adds, as an explanation to his fancy clothing.

He doesn't notice the present on the desk yet, focusing on Grimaud instead. 

"Investigating the sale of slaves?" Grimaud asks, glancing up. "I saw you at the sale today, looking quite ... posh.”

Athos's eyes widen a little. It never fails to amaze him just how much Grimaud knows about everything. "Were you following me again?" he asks, more curious than annoyed at the idea. He hadn't seen Grimaud at all, and he'd been paying attention.

Grimaud shrugs, watching Athos keenly. “Is this how you dressed when you were the comte, Musketeer?"

Athos glances down, making a face as he unties his silk collar. It feels more stifling than his leather and metal battle armor. "More or less," he admits, watching Grimaud. He can't quite tell whether Grimaud will make fun of him as well or will be irked to see him dressed as the people he abhors.

Instead, Grimaud nods toward Athos's desk. "Got you a trinket to remember today by." Nothing like a carved glass phallus to say you care, is there?

Athos follows Grimaud's line of sight, his eyes widening again. "Of all things, this is what you chose to buy me?" he asks, disbelieving as he steps closer to look at it. It's lovely and very well-made, if completely lewd. There is a slight flush on Athos's cheeks as he turns to glare at Grimaud. "Is that why you were at that sale?"

That earns him a withering glare. "I was there to kill anyone trying to sell a woman as a slave," Grimaud retorts sharply. "Only to find out that it is what comes next week. Why were you there?"

Athos looks faintly taken aback. "That's what we are investigating as well," he says, cautiously. "Treville has ordered us to put an end to it. We needed to see if there were slaves up for auction at that sale, hence the disguise." He steps closer, fishing the card from inside his silk jacket. "I was able to find when the slave auction will be held, too."

Reaching for the card, Grimaud tilts it toward the candle to read it, then frowns. "That isn't what I was told." 

"There might be several," Athos answers, thoughtfully. "Or one of us was lied to, and set to fall into a trap."

His brow furrowed as he looks up at Athos, Grimaud decides, "you will go to your sale and I will go to mine. And we will destroy all of the scum who sell people for money."

It's an unforeseen twist, that they should work together for the good of Paris after all, but somehow Athos isn't all that surprised. Grimaud's unexpected help is much appreciated, as the slavers seem well-organised and careful. He gets the card back and puts it away. He removes his jacket and sets it on the back of his chair, valiantly ignoring the thing on the desk. Under the jacket, his shirt has ruffles. Too many of them. Athos sighs.

"Where were you hiding your clothing?" Grimaud asks, cleaning his knife to store it, brushing the wood shavings from the bed. "Was this yours when you were still an aristocrat?" Of course, his own clothing is tattered and grey with irregular washing.

"Everything I owned from that life burned in a fire," Athos answers, quietly. And he gladly let it, too. "I borrowed this from the palace. I don't know who it belongs to." Athos himself would have chosen something a little less ostentatious, even as a comte. He has half a mind to ask Grimaud if he would like to tear the ruffled shirt from him. It might prove cathartic to them both.

Grimaud watches him with hooded eyes. "I'm sure who you borrowed it from hardly misses it," he says, letting his head rest against the wall. "Take it off," he orders. "All of it."

The order makes Athos pause but he doesn't try to argue. He starts at the cufflinks, setting them on the desk, before removing his shirt and undershirt. The small leather shoes are easily toed off, Athos removing his trousers and the ridiculous silk socks under it. He stands there in his usual underwear, arching his eyebrows at Grimaud.

"All of it," he's told. "Have you forgotten how to follow orders, Musketeer?" Grimaud asks, brow arching. That will get Grimaud a half-hearted glare, but Athos obeys nonetheless. He removes his braies as well, standing naked for Grimaud to see.

They have not played - if it is playing - like this in quite some time. At this point, following orders is a second nature for Athos, even now that he is Captain of the Garrison. If the orders are fair and come from someone he regards and trusts, he will follow them without a second thought. It settles him, too, in an odd way, to fall back into their old pattern. 

"You were only playing at being an aristocrat or so you said," Grimaud taunts him, watching him. 

"I'm not an aristocrat," Athos states, his jaw setting.

"You were," Grimaud reminds him. "Must still be in your blood.”

Athos frowns at the idea, displeased. He knows Grimaud is not wrong, still. Athos was shaped by his upbringing, though perhaps not in the way Grimaud thinks.

With a smirk, Grimaud changes the subject. “Do you like your gift, Musketeer?" he asks, nodding toward the smooth, carved glass.

"It's lewd," Athos answers, which is neither a yes nor a no. He wonders if Grimaud will want to use it on him. The idea makes him flush a little, unsure he would like it.

"Pick it up. Feel the weight of it."

Complying, Athos reaches for it and holds it in his hand, inspecting the glasswork curiously. It's heavier than he thought it would be, and much colder too.

Grimaud just watches Athos, feeling possessive and wanting, still tinged with that residual anxiety from not knowing where he was before.

Reaching out, he grasps Athos's wrist, pulling him close. "Kiss me."

The order is one Athos can't imagine ever wanting to disobey and he discards Grimaud's present on the bed in favour of pulling him close, slipping his fingers through his hair to kiss him. Grimaud's doublet is cool against his chest, making him shiver, his eyes slipping shut.

Everything seems to pour into that kiss. Grimaud licks at Athos's tongue, teeth scraping along his lower lip, hands digging into his arms to pull him close. He will take him, bent over the bed like this, just taking the time to pull down his trousers. 

Afterward, Grimaud asks, his voice low, "do you have what you need to take on the traders?" 

"Probably,” Athos answers quietly. “But Treville wants to bring them all down, including the buyers." Which is why they're waiting for a sale, to catch them in the act.

"Does he wish them to go to prison?" Grimaud asks. 

"The buyers will be fined, depending how rich they are," Athos explains, his hand on the nape of Grimaud's neck. "The punishment for selling slaves is exile, with at least ten years of galleys first." Athos suspects that will seem to kind for Grimaud and he leans away just an inch, to be able to see his eyes.

"That's too good for them," Grimaud says, his voice near a growl. "Should be strung up. Or used as those they sell would be used." 

Athos frowns at him. "But then, what would make us different from them, selling other human beings into servitude?" he points out, arching his eyebrows.

"Intent," Grimaud tells him, jaw tight. "They set out to profit with little regard for those they sell. We don’t." 

He's not entirely wrong, yet Athos can hardly condone that. He shakes his head, slowly. "The galleys are a kind of servitude. Some say death is kinder," he points out. He won't let anyone be sold in slavery, not even former slavers. He will send any slaver he manages to catch to jail happily, however. 

He suspects that if Grimaud gets to them first, he will kill them. He won’t try to persuade him otherwise. He watches Grimaud in the candlelight, slowly reaching up to touch the scar above his eyebrow. "How did you get this?"

There is just that slightest flinch at the scar being touched, but Grimaud doesn't pull away. Athos's touch is gentle, and his hand drops when he sees Grimaud is uncomfortable.

The answer, though, comes without thought. "I had not eaten in days," he tells Athos, matter-of-factly. "I could smell the baking bread and when the man turned away from where he left it, I took it. Before I could run too far - " for he was very small - "he caught me and whipped me, starting before I could even turn around. The willow branch caught me there."

Listening in silence, Athos’s eyebrows furrow at the story. He can picture it, Grimaud as a small, too-thin child, desperate for bread. He says nothing but he leans in, pulling Grimaud closer so he can press a light kiss to the scar.

That action sends shivers down Grimaud's back. His eyes close and he relaxes just that little bit more.

It's Athos's turn, then; Grimaud runs his hand along Athos's side, stopping at a scar. "And this one?"

Athos hums, trying to remember. "I was stabbed by an English thief outside of Calais," he recalls, easily. "He almost made it to England with an entire trunk of tax money, too," he adds, wryly.

"He didn't move fast enough," Grimaud notes dryly. Clearly. "Did you get in your own scar?"

"He's dead," Athos states, quietly. "I shot him." He would have preferred not to, but the thief had been standing over a wounded Porthos with his sword drawn.

"And that Aramis sewed you up?"

"He did. He sewed most of my scars. And Porthos's. He's good at it," Athos confirms with a small smile. And indeed, most of his scars are neat and precise, the same stitch Grimaud now has on his ribs.

One of them is not, however, small but jagged over Athos's collarbone. That's the one that Grimaud runs his finger over. All he does, now, is raise his eyebrows in question. What is the story behind this one?

"Ah," Athos says, quietly. That one is more difficult to talk about. "That was before I met Aramis, when I first came to Paris," he says, slowly. "I fell into a well." That's truth, but it's not the whole story, obviously.

Now, both of Grimaud's eyebrows are up. "It isn't hard to avoid falling into a well, Musketeer." 

Looking down, Athos doesn't refuse to explain. "I was drunk. Very, very drunk. Perhaps I jumped. I don't remember." He does, but it's vague and confuse. He remembers wanting it all to end, which leads him to assume he did not fall by accident.

Wrapping his hand around the back of Athos's neck, Grimaud frowns.

Athos hasn't had reason to drink since they've been together, let alone until he couldn't remember his own name. He glances up when Grimaud touches his neck, somewhat apprehensive that Grimaud will think him weak, now.

Leaning forward, Grimaud kisses Athos, leaning their foreheads together. "Stay with me, Musketeer," he whispers.

Kissing back, Athos shakes his head slowly. "I would not do this again, not now," he explains, quietly. The situation is different. Arriving in Paris after fleeing the disaster in La Fère had been an unparalleled low in Athos's life.

Grimaud doesn’t ask any further questions, which might be for the best, as it is still difficult for Athos to talk about this. Another time, perhaps, Grimaud can get the end of the story. 

Staying close, Grimaud closes his eyes for the moment. He never wished to hurt himself; he had only wished to hurt others. To know that Athos tried to end his own life unsettles him, though he is reassured that Athos won’t try this again. Like that, relatively quickly, he falls asleep.

Athos leans into Grimaud's embrace and lets it calm him, closing his eyes and falling asleep as well.


	12. The Price of Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I wanted to kill you. Then I - " Grimaud swallows dryly, feeling that same need and want that he always feels. "It was your mouth," he says with a kind of wonder, thumb tracing Athos's lips. "I wanted to fuck you." As a Musketeer, as a man, as Athos.

The slave auction that Grimaud heard about is a few days later and he goes, his weapons at the ready under his cloak. Sure enough, there are women for sale, beaten and scarred with eyes that seem hollow. It fills Grimaud with rage; he grits his teeth as he waits. Control in all things, yes, but it is so very hard.

Athos is there too, standing in the shadows with a cape and hood concealing his uniform. He doesn't plan to intervene or stop Grimaud, only there to provide back-up should anything go wrong. After all, there are several sellers and guards, perhaps more than a single man can handle.

Watching from the shadows, Grimaud tracks who he wants to eliminate and when one of the slavers steps out looking pleased, Grimaud follows, drawing his dagger, keeping it hidden under his cloak. 

Just as he turns, he sees Athos, pausing only a breath..

In the dark, all Athos can see is the dangerous gleam of Grimaud’s eyes, and the thin line of his mouth, lips pressed together angrily. He glances at the slaver walking away with a content hum, then back to Grimaud, and gives a small nod. 

Good; had Athos tried to stop him, Grimaud might very well have hesitated. For now, though, he keeps going and in the shadows outside the building, he slips his sharp knife between the ribs of this creature (Grimaud doesn't call him a man). The man falls, looking aghast that someone would stab him. Grimaud sneers, wiping his knife on the man's shirt, before he heads back inside. 

His work is far from done: there are two other sellers he wishes to dispatch, then the men who had the temerity to buy the women. From there, he needs -  _ they _ need - to find a place for the women.

Athos lets it happen, staying in the shadows and watching Grimaud make quick work of the men there, taking them out one at a time. It reminds Athos of the first times they met, when Grimaud was still bent on killing him. He steps forward when panic starts to spread through the crowd, more and more people realising what is happening.

"The women," he tells Grimaud, catching his sleeve. "They can come to the Garrison. Constance will have them."

Grimaud nods. His goal gets more difficult when the sellers start to scatter, making him snarl. "Are you here to help me, Athos?" he asks. They need to move fast to catch who they can before the perpetrators are lost. If Athos is willing to go down this road, Grimaud nods in the direction of one who seems to want to flee.

The Musketeer doesn’t hesitate, making after the slaver fleeing out of the building. He won't kill him but he will knock him out with the butt of his musket, tying him up in a closet under the stairs. He'll send Musketeers to fetch him later on so he can be judged, as is lawful.

As he turns to go back in, Athos wonders if Grimaud will be angry with him for this. There is no time to think about that though, as he steps onto the stage, holding his hands up to try not to frighten the women still tied there. He speaks calmly and quietly to them, untying them one by one and explaining that they are now free, and under the protection of the King's Musketeers. He promises them a meal and a roof for the night, and they agree to follow him.

As Athos brings a kind of heaven, Grimaud brings a kind of hell. It isn't pretty and it isn't easy, but he does what he set out to do, breaking a rib in the process. When he reappears, most of the blood he wears is not his own.

He gathers horses before staggering into where Athos and the women are, shouting, "Musketeer, we have to leave." Because trouble is surely coming; this will not be unanswered.

The women startle and Athos turns around abruptly, his musket drawn. "He's with us, do not worry," he placates, and does not heed his own advice as he takes in the blood on Grimaud's clothes and the way he's staggering. He leads the women outside as gently and swiftly as he can.

"Two on each horse, follow us," he orders, helping them all on horses and making sure the women in front know how to ride. He'll have to share the last horse with Grimaud, helping him to get on it and then climbing on in front of him.

At this point all Grimaud can do is hold on to Athos's belt, grunting each time they go too hard, even though there is little choice.

Athos tries to keep the horse galloping at a steady pace to avoid jarring Grimaud's ribs but there is only so much he can do as they make for Paris. No-one seems to be following them, though, and they reach the south gate without trouble. Athos gestures for the women to stop and helps Grimaud down, gripping both his arms and stepping close to meet his eyes.

"Come by later," he requests, his eyebrows arched. He knows Grimaud got hurt and doesn't want him to ignore it as he usually does. He lets go with some difficulty and gets back on his horse, leading the women to the Garrison. 

A little later Constance will be awakened by Athos knocking on her door and leading her to the courtyard of the Garrison, where a group of women stand, cold, scared and hungry.

Constance doesn't hesitate. Immediately, she is shepherding the women in and rousing Musketeers to draw baths and to give up beds. Her look tells Athos that she will be asking about this later, but now is for food and a wash and rest.

When he can no longer stand the pain of his rib and wishes for the comfort of Athos's touch, Grimaud pushes himself to the Musketeer's door (past what seem to be a herd of Musketeers sleeping in the courtyard). He is clumsy at picking the lock, though, and he growls in frustration.

Athos is taking off his doublet when he hears his lock rattle, an unusually clumsy attempt at picking it. He picks up his musket just in case and opens the door himself, eyebrows arching when he recognizes Grimaud. "Get in," he says, pulling him inside.

Hissing at the movement, Grimaud stumbles in, then yanks his arm away. Weary to his very bones, he sits gingerly on the bed, bending to take off his boots and wincing when it hurts too badly. He leans back up slowly, looking defeated. 

Locking the door behind Grimaud, Athos steps closer, looking concerned. "Where are you hurt?" he asks, very carefully reaching out to remove Grimaud's doublet.

Grimaud grunts, and Athos can tell he's hesitating to actually tell. "Got kicked in the ribs," he finally sighs, touching the area. "It's broken."

"Let me see," Athos requests, careful not to put any strain on his ribs as he removes Grimaud's shirt and drops to one knee, lightly feeling the area. It's broken, that much is sure, but it doesn't seem like it will need to be set, which is good. He sighs and stands up slowly.

"I'll wrap them for you." There isn't much more to be done about broken ribs, in Athos's experience. Wrap them tight and take it easy. He's not getting his hopes up for the second one, though.

There is still too much to do; Grimaud hrms out a sound and lets Athos do as he will; he tries - and fails - to bite back his groan when the wrapping goes on, though.

"You need to rest," Athos states quietly, stepping to his desk to retrieve the pain medicine Grimaud brought him once. 

(It's in the same drawer as the glass phallus he got at the auction. He hopes no-one never looks in that drawer).

"You make a fine nurse, Musketeer," Grimaud murmurs.

"And you're a terrible patient," Athos points out, but both his voice and his eyes are fond. He gets the paste mixed with a little wine in a glass and hands it to Grimaud before crouching down to help him remove his boots.

Not so much sipping as gulping, Grimaud downs the potion. It's nearly immediate, a kind of warm relief and lightness. He leans his head back and his eyes are slitted, his pupils wide and barely visible. Athos catches him, helping him down and pulling him very carefully until he is lying on his back.

"I don't understand why you want me," Grimaud notes after a minute, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth. 

The words make Athos’s chest feel tight. "Yet, I do," he says quietly, kissing Grimaud's brow.

Fisting his hand in the material of Athos's tunic, Grimaud looks bleary and intent at once. "But you don't even know why." He goes right on, saying, "stay with me, Musketeer." 

"I know why," Athos corrects, smoothing Grimaud's hair back. "I'll stay," he confirms, settling next to Grimaud carefully. "I won't leave your side, as long as you need me. You're safe here," he adds, hoping Grimaud will relax.

Grimaud shakes his head, saying, "stay. With. Me." 

Athos watches him, boneless and yet tense on the bed, his head lolling as he shakes it. "That too," he agrees, his tone serious. "As long as you want me." He means this, too, and will seal it with another kiss to Grimaud's brow.

Moving his hand from Athos's shirt to curl around his neck, Grimaud closes his eyes. "I don't know how you did it," he whispers. "How you - " his free hand flutters in the air, indicating tangling. "How you did that to me."

Staying close, Athos rests his cheek against Grimaud's shoulder. "I think we did it to each other," he points out. He's just as entangled as Grimaud is, and it is even more ill-advised for him to be so. He looks at Grimaud's face. "What did you want, when you started this?" he asks, quietly. He feels bad for asking this when Grimaud is unable to refuse answering or lie convincingly, but he wants to know.

"I wanted to kill you. Then I - " Grimaud swallows dryly, feeling that same need and want that he always feels. "It was your mouth," he says with a kind of wonder, thumb tracing Athos's lips. "I wanted to fuck you." As a Musketeer, as a man, as Athos.

Athos nods because he knew the first one. Then he nods again, slower, because he also knew the second one. The words send a flush through his body but he stays focused, considering Grimaud carefully. He's never had anyone compliment his mouth before, if that was a compliment. He knows it looks unusual, his lips mismatched, just barely enough to be noticeable under his mustache. "And then?" he asks, his lips moving against Grimaud's thumb.

"And then ... . " Then. Slowly, Grimaud shakes his head, eyes entirely focused on the way his thumb moves over Athos's mouth, imperfect that it is. "And then you - " With a thick tongue and muzzy head, Grimaud tries to parse the words. "You got inside me and refused to leave."

Athos watches him for a while, just taking in what he knows Grimaud is trying to tell him. "Yes," he agrees at length, and takes Grimaud's hand in his so he can lean in and kiss him instead.

It's not the smoothest kiss, but Grimaud's hunger is obvious. He leans into the kiss, licking, tasting. Athos wants too, and it shows in the way he kisses back, his fingers slipping through Grimaud's hair and stroking down his back. This man is his, he knows. With his dark past, his flawed morals and his dangerous disposition. It's his, and Athos wants it all.

Grimaud's fingers twist the material of Athos's tunic. "Musketeer," he whispers, slipping his mouth to kiss the column of Athos's neck, licking salt and sweat.

It feels good and Athos knows he needs to put an end to it, before they do something they will both regret come morning. "Lucien," he returns, tilting his head to allow the kisses, his hands slipping into Grimaud's hair. "You need rest," he whispers, turning to look into Grimaud's eyes. "Yes?"

Grimaud makes a low, disagreeing noise, almost a growl. But when his head falls back, he lets his eyes close again, sleep pulling at him. "Say my name again," he asks, still holding to what he can of Athos.

Smiling, Athos wraps an arm around Grimaud's hips, the other stroking through his hair. "Sleep, Lucien. You did well today. I'll watch over you, you're safe here."

It's something a child needs to be told and in that way, Athos realizes that Grimaud is still a child. He was never safe when he was young. Now, here, in this moment, in the midst of the Musketeer's Garrison, he is safe.

Griamaud's head lolls to the side and he sleeps, soundly and well, not even waking up when he tries to roll over. The medicine is just that powerful. Athos pulls the blankets up over him and makes sure his ribs aren't being strained. He watches Grimaud until the candle goes out and then settles to sleep by his side, holding him close.

In the morning, he is careful not to wake Grimaud as he gets ready for another day. He leaves a note next to Grimaud on the bed, pleading for him to rest all day, and a tray of food with a pile of books next to it. There is much to be done to help the women at the Garrison, and much to explain.

When Grimaud finally wakes, it is light. He can hear Constance giving orders in the courtyard and with that, he realizes he's trapped. He still gets up painfully, trying to put on his clothes. He gets as far as his tunic and stops, lying back down and staring at the ceiling.

Athos would feel bad about trapping Grimaud in his rooms again except he knows it's the only way he will stay relatively still all day. He has a busy morning, riding to inform Treville of this new development and then helping take care of the women still at the Garrison. He goes back to his rooms around noon, bringing lunch for himself and Grimaud.

That grumpy bear aspect of Grimaud is back; he scowls at being trapped, though he does eye the food hungrily. "Have you a new set of Musketeer recruits, Captain?"

Despite Grimaud's foreboding countenance, the words make Athos smile. "No, though I suppose Constance would be pleased." He comes to sit on the bed, setting the tray of food next to Grimaud. "How are your ribs?"

"Still broken," Grimaud replies aridly. His chest is black and blue with the break, too; he's quite the sight. 

Athos gives him a look because really, he knew that. The bruise is expansive on Grimaud's chest, and it makes him wish he'd killed the slaver he spared, instead of having him arrested.

Grimaud reaches for the bread and -

"Carrots?" he asks, arching a brow at Athos. Really?

"We have a deal with someone at the market, I think," Athos explains with a shrug. There are often carrots on the menu, and he doesn't mind.

Grimaud eats as ungraciously as he ever does. "The women are all right?" he asks, and he doesn't dare ask more specific questions; the thought alone makes his stomach ache.

"All of them, yes," Athos answers as he eats, watching Grimaud. His own table manners are flawless, even without a table or cutlery. "And grateful," he adds, pointedly. "We are trying to find their families and send them home, or find them a job in Paris if they wish to stay."

"Is there a place in this Paris for women like this?" Grimaud asks. "They would hardly benefit from working as whores in the city." 

"Constance says the wash house where she takes our uniforms is hiring washerwomen." Not an easy job, but an honest one. "They rent rooms above the wash house, too, for those who work there."

Grimaud can't seem to say the words ‘thank you’, but he nods, casting his eyes down, then back to Athos's again.

There is no need to thank Athos but he nods all the same, the corners of his lips curving up. "Most of them have homes they want to go back to. Treville gave us enough money to pay for the trip. Aramis and Porthos will ride with them to Marseilles."

"There need to be men who keep them from getting taken again." Someone needs to take charge, dammit. Grimaud scowls at the thought of them being endangered again. "The Musketeers will talk to them." 

"Yes," Athos agrees, eating his cheese with a piece of bread. "Porthos knows someone in Marseilles who will travel with them. They'll see about hiring a few more guards to keep them safe." 

With a grunt, Grimaud settles carefully, hand against his ribs. "The next sale .... " He looks at Athos in question. When is it?

"In four days," Athos answers, finishing his bread and drinking from his metal cup. "I will go as a potential buyer to see it enfold. The others will surround the building, so we can arrest everyone inside." He gives Grimaud a flat look. 

He hopes Lucien will sit this one out, but he knows him too well by now to take his silence as acceptance to stay away from this. He knows that there is nothing he can do to stop Grimaud from doing what he wants though, so he doesn't bother arguing the point

After a while, Grimaud’s hand lands on Athos's knee. He remembers some of what they said the night before, but not much. All he knows for certain is that what he feels for Athos runs deep and not only can it not be extracted, but he doesn't wish to let it go.

Looking up at the touch, Athos's smile is faint though his eyes are fond. "Will you stay here until tomorrow morning?" he inquires, moving closer to touch Grimaud's face.

Grimaud leans into the touch and nods. He'll stay.

Athos has never looked forward to returning to his chambers for the night so much, and he finds he likes it. He brings dinner and they can eat before settling in for the night, lying close to each other. Athos is tired but he likes this too much to go to sleep at once, stroking his hands across Grimaud's warm back and chest carefully.

"You're lucky I'm injured," Grimaud whispers, smirking in the candlelight even if the warmth in his eyes gives him away. "Or I would have you on your hands and knees for me, Musketeer."

Athos grins right back, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He's not ashamed, not when the words send a familiar thrill down his spine. "Is that lucky, I wonder," he points out, his eyebrows arching. He leans in for a kiss but keeps it light, not meaning to make them both ache for something they cannot have.

"Give me two more days," Grimaud promises, his voice low, rough with promise. Athos hums, shaking his head. "At least four. After the sale," he corrects, stroking his hand along Grimaud's ribs, not on the side of the injury.

Grimaud growls, head canted back to allow Athos to do as he pleases, even as his rough fingers bite into his sides. It seems very far away, and the temptation is mighty. But Grimaud is injured, and he doesn't mean to make it any worse than the man will probably do on his own. He smiles at the tight grip Grimaud has on him, nipping on the crook of his neck, his tongue flicking out and tasting salt.

He can feel a tell-tale shiver and he can see Grimaud tries to tamp down it, but fails, even as it makes his ribs ache to even move.

Athos finds with a little surprise that he likes it. Not that Grimaud is hurt, he doesn't like that, but that Grimaud is forced to stay still and let him do what he wants. Grimaud doesn’t seem to hate it either, closing his eyes and canting into the touch a little. It makes Athos wonder what it would be like to press Grimaud down and have him, for a change. Provided Grimaud would even allow it.

But now isn't the time for that and Athos merely nips on Grimaud's neck again, reaching down to cup him through his trousers. "Can you stay still?" he asks, his voice low against Grimaud's jaw.

Groaning, Grimaud clenches his jaw. He glares at Athos under heavy lids. Yes, he can stay still. 

Arching an eyebrow at the glare, Athos leans up to kiss Grimaud again, slow but heated, as he tugs his trousers open and slips his hand inside.

Because he knows what this means for Grimaud, Athos won't tease, stroking him evenly, his grip tight. He remembers what Grimaud said about his mouth and keeps kissing him, nipping on his lower lip. His other hand strokes through Grimaud's hair, holding him in place.

"Athos - !"

The word comes out a hiss. Grimaud comes quickly and he flushes, even smiling a bit as the aftershocks work through him.

Smiling against Grimaud's cheekbone, Athos’s hand curls gently around him. This will help Grimaud find sleep, he hopes, as they are almost out of pain medicine. He presses gentle kisses to Grimaud's jaw and sits up to clean his hands, watching him carefully.

Eyes heavy-lidded and dark, Grimaud stays sprawled on the bed. "What of you?" he asks, expecting Athos to be aroused as well. "Should I make you finish yourself so that I can watch?"

Athos is indeed aroused and he smiles at the look on Grimaud's face. "Perhaps I will wait," he says quietly, lying back down next to Grimaud, his mouth brushing against his shoulder.

"Wait until I'm healed." Turning his head, Grimaud can bury his nose in Athos's hair. He likes the idea of that, of Athos having to bide his time. The reaction makes Athos smile and he carefully wraps an arm around Grimaud’s hips, settling for the night.

It's easy enough for Grimaud to fall asleep like this, even with the dull ache of his ribs, and to sleep through the night. When the morning bell rings, he wakes and tries to test his ribs. It still hurts sharply, but if he lies still for much longer, he'll go mad.

Athos makes himself lift his head when Grimaud shifts against him, sleepily watching him move. He sighs as Grimaud grunts, leaning up on an elbow. He knows Grimaud is in no condition to move, and he also knows Grimaud will be difficult about it. 

"You could stay here one more day," he says, quietly. And then, to make this less about Grimaud being hurt and more about Athos being a sentimental fool, he adds, "I like having you here."

That earns him an arched eyebrow and Grimaud tries again to sit up. It’s excruciating. "I need to send letters," he tells Athos and his look tells Athos what he needs to know. He needs to assuage Feron, or there will be trouble.

Pushing Grimaud back into bed by the shoulders, Athos says, "I will bring you what you need to write them. And breakfast."

Reaching up, Grimaud catches his cheek. "Don't wait on me," he tells Athos. 

"You saved my life twice," Athos points out, his eyebrows arching. "And got countless women out of slavery. I can wait on you." He does not mind doing this for Grimaud, no matter how menial the task seems.

Grimaud grunts out a sound of yes.

Athos pushes his luck by leaning in for a quick kiss before he leaves, getting enough food for two and paper, quills and ink for Grimaud's letter-writing. He comes back quickly, still somewhat worried that Grimaud will have taken advantage of his absence to sneak out.

Truth is, Grimaud thought about it. It hurts too much, still. Instead, he writes letters and gives them to Athos. "These need to be delivered today or Feron will be even more unbearable and irrational. Send the boy."

"I will." Grantaire was in the kitchens when Athos got them food so it will be easy to send him with the letters. He pushes the tray of food towards Grimaud, taking the letters and not reading them as he folds them into the inner pocket of his doublet. He watches Grimaud, wondering how he'll stay another day in bed without getting mad. "Do you want books?"

"Can you not stay, Musketeer? And occupy me?"

The request is accompanied by an oddly sweet look on Grimaud's face. "I cannot," Athos confirms. He arches an eyebrow but he'll sit with Grimaud a while longer. "There is much to do."

"And what does a Captain of the Musketeers have to do in this particular moment?" Grimaud asks, reaching out to push a lock of hair back from Athos's eyes.

"Make sure a dozen women get home safely," Athos answers, the corners of his mouth curving up slightly at the touch. "And prevent the Red Guard from abusing more Parisians."

"Marcheaux," Grimaud says, tone grim. The man is weak and easily controlled. "He is aroused by being cruel."

"I noticed," Athos answers, grimly. He'd fear for Constance too, considering the looks Marcheaux has been giving her, if she wasn't so capable of fending for herself. "But that makes him predictable."

"He's a weakness for wine," Grimaud tells him. "Give him enough and he's even more useless."

"I will remember this," Athos answers and he thanks Grimaud for this piece of information with a kiss, his hand coming to rest lightly on Grimaud's chest.

Covering Athos's hand on his chest, Grimaud kisses back. "Go to work, Musketeer before I make you stay."

That makes Athos smile and lean their foreheads together for a second before he stands up. He'll bring Grimaud a few of his favourite books before he leaves, finding Grantaire and giving him the letters. They tell Feron to await word; that Grimaud has plans in the works (not entirely a lie, nor the truth). It will assuage Feron for a while.


	13. Home is Where the Heart Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weapons and clothes are easily shed and Grimaud rolls onto the bed carefully, holding Athos close. "What do you want, Musketeer," he whispers between biting kisses, "for your victory?"
> 
> "Our victory," Athos corrects. "You," he answers, cautiously rolling on top of Grimaud, careful not to pin him down. "I want you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mention of sexual abuse in a character's past

The week passes slowly, Athos trying his best to entice Grimaud to stay in his room for as long as he can, binding his ribs carefully every morning and plying him with books, food and kisses. 

Grimaud is arch and prickly but Athos doesn’t mind, enjoying the feeling of having someone sleeping by his side and waiting for him in his rooms every evening. He’ll even miss being welcomed back by a surly snarl, he thinks. 

Despite all of that, he knows that nothing will keep Grimaud from being at the next slave auction still, and, true to form, on that evening Grimaud stands stiffly in the shadows, his ribs bound tightly and his jaw set against the pain.

For his part, Athos dresses like an aristocrat once more, the elegant silk clothes stifling him as he sits front row for the auction, turning his nose up and glaring cooly at everyone. The other Musketeers stay outside the building, ready to come in at his signal. He knows Grimaud is there somewhere too, and spares a few seconds to hope he won't get himself in too much trouble, considering he's still recovering.

As planned, Athos waits until the sale is well on its way to give the signal. It means he has to sit there and watch terrified slaves being pushed around for what feels like an eternity. Finally, his resolves breaks as a young girl is marched onto the small stage and he excuses himself to light a candle by a secluded window, the signal that will have the Musketeers rushing in, guns drawn but not blazing, mindful of the innocents there against their wills.

Watching all this unfold from afar, Grimaud is the only one to see the Red Guard coming. He scowls. Trust Feron to try to ensure that things go badly. He makes to tell Marcheaux off but it’s too late and the Guard charges into the building, gunfire starting almost immediately.

With a hiss, Grimaud slows those who rush forward, for they are clumsy fighters, but he cannot stop them all and hopes the Musketeers are competent enough to protect the women. 

The whole situation is a mess but the Musketeers are able to fight on both fronts, keeping the Red Guard at bay while they arrest the slavers and get the women to safety. Athos fights with cool rage, knocking out several of the slavers and buyers until all of them are in cuffs, the women quickly ushered out by Constance through the back door.

By the time he gets back to the Garrison, Athos is sporting a black eye and his fine silk jacket is ripped at the elbow. He's otherwise unharmed, looking up when Grimaud slips inside his room, his lips curving up into a smile. He is pleased, as the mission was a success despite the Red Guard causing enough confusion to allow a few of the slavers to escape. All the former slaves have been freed, and gathered at the Garrison with the others.

"Duck next time, Musketeer," Grimaud says, coming close to look at the injury himself, running a thumb under it. There is a feral righteousness to Athos's grin at the advice. Grimaud should see the other guy. "Are they all in your prison?"

"A few managed to sneak out thanks to the Red Guard," Athos says, closing his eye when Grimaud’s thumb runs under it gently. "But the others are behind bars and will stay there for a long time."

"I'll find out where they went." And Athos knows that when he does, Grimaud will deal with them on his own terms. He accepts it. 

"Let me know if I can help," Athos agrees, reaching up to help Grimaud sit down, his eyebrows arching when he grunts in discomfort. Before he can ask Grimaud if his ribs are hurting him he’s being kissed fiercely and he hums, kissing back. Athos feels restless but energized from the fight he had earlier, buoyed by their almost complete success. It translates to the way he’s kissing Grimaud heatedly, slipping both hands in Grimaud's long hair, tugging.

Weapons and clothes are easily shed and Grimaud rolls onto the bed carefully, holding Athos close. "What do you want, Musketeer," he whispers between biting kisses, "for your victory?"

" _ Our _ victory," Athos corrects. "You," he answers, cautiously rolling on top of Grimaud, not putting any weight on his chest and careful not to pin him down. "I want you."

There's a fleeting stiffness to Grimaud's spine at that suggestion. He lifts his chin, eyes never leaving Athos's. "Think you can handle me, Musketeer?"

Athos arches an eyebrow at the challenge. "I've managed well-enough so far," he points out, running his thumb over Grimaud's cheekbone. He won't do anything before Grimaud agrees, still, and will do nothing if he refuses, unwilling to push for what is not freely given. 

Grimaud's face is so carefully blank at this moment Athos knows something must be going on beneath the surface. He lets it unfold, keeping his eyes on Grimaud's dark ones, holding him close as he nods, a quick bob of the head. "Don't make me wait, then, Musketeer," he whispers, kissing Athos again. 

Humming, Athos strokes through Grimaud's hair gently before he sets out to remove both their shirts, more careful of Grimaud's ribs than of the fine silk he is wearing.

There are a few grunts in there, some hissing, but Grimaud lies back when he's shirtless and helps get the rest of his clothing off. He watches Athos this whole time, almost warily. 

Through what Grimaud isn’t saying, Athos slowly comes to the realisation that his lover has probably been abused in this way. They live in a cruel world and Grimaud was defenceless in it for long enough to see the worst of people. It shows how much he cares for Athos that Grimaud is even considering to do this, he knows. 

When Grimaud pulls him down over him, Athos kisses him fervently, catching himself on his elbows to avoid putting any weight on his chest. He blindly reaches for the oil he keeps by the bed, kissing down Grimaud's neck. "If you say stop," he says intently, his free hand slipping through Grimaud's hair. "I'll stop. I won’t ask any questions. I won’t be angry”

Grimaud sighs, slow and deep. There is no doubt in his mind that Athos would stop should he tell him to, and it settles him a little. He won’t be in control this time, but he can still very much be  _ in control _ . 

“Lucien,” Athos says, quietly, and Grimaud gives him an arch glare, spreading his legs.

“Are you…” Athos tries again, but Grimaud interrupts rudely, nudging him with his knee none-too-gently. Athos gives him a look and leans in, putting his mouth on Grimaud's cock because that is the best way he knows to make him relax and give in to pleasure.  


Rocking his hips up to get more of that mouth, still Grimaud tenses. He grips the headboard, closing his eyes. This is the most he can give Athos and damned if he doesn't really want to; it's just hard, his body's memory fighting back.

Luckily, Athos is a patient man. He doesn't push, stroking up Grimaud's chest slowly, mindful of his ribs, and across his hips. He bobs his head and sucks, only pressing the tip of his finger in when he feels Grimaud relax a little, taking his time.

"Just do it," Grimaud whispers, not cruelly.

Leaning up, Athos watches Grimaud intently, his eyes dark and his mouth red and wet. He shakes his head, once. "I don't want this enough to hurt you to take it," he says, quietly. Which is saying a lot because he really, really wants this.

"I won't break," Grimaud mumbles in reply. "Do more." Perhaps his expression makes clear what his words can't: before he has a chance to change his mind. 

With a nod, Athos complies. He won’t go any faster or any harder but he’ll get there nonetheless. He licks over Grimaud's cock and reaches back, except this time he doesn't stop, working one and then two slick fingers inside slowly.

It makes Grimaud frown. It isn't painful; there is the strange slickness, but even that is not displeasurable. It's bearable. Then Athos finds that place inside of Grimaud that feels like a flint sparking inside of him and his cock jumps.

“Like this,” Athos confirms, quietly. He has enough experience doing this on himself to know what he's looking for and how to touch it, keeping a steady rhythm. He'll do this for as long as Grimaud allows, adding a third finger and sucking him harder, feeling his body gradually give in to it. It's even tempting to make Grimaud come from just this, Athos thinks, to reconcile him with the feeling and delay his own satisfaction.

But soon Grimaud is nudging him again, obviously trying to tamp down his own reaction, the way he flushes, the way the gooseflesh runs along the backs of his legs, how he arches off the bed. He whispers, "hurry already."

“Like this?" Athos repeats, pressing kisses to Grimaud's chest as he slicks himself, shuddering at the feeling. He settles between Grimaud’s spread thighs, pulling him closer.

"Yes." Grimaud lets go of the headboard to reach a hand for Athos's hip. "Now, Musketeer."

Athos won't delay any longer, gripping Grimaud's hip with one hand and guiding himself with the other. He rocks his hips forward and Grimaud's body yields easily enough, opening for him. 

He lets out a gasp of surprise at how very tight Grimaud is (it's one thing to know it, and another entirely to experience it) and presses in until their hips are flush together. Athos rests his forehead against Grimaud's, gasping when Lucien digs his fingers into his hips, urging him to move, to find that place in him again, breath hissing between his teeth.

From there, it’s easy to spread his knees on the mattress to get more leverage, Athos slowly rocking his hips. He's careful at first and then more confident when he sees that Grimaud can take it, adjusting the angle of his thrusts until he thinks he got it right. It's difficult to think like this, with Grimaud so tight and warm around him, but he makes focus on Grimaud’s face, kissing his cheekbone. 

Grimaud keeps his eyes open and stares right back as he grips Athos's hair, digging his fingers into his back. He is breathless, a little dizzy, aroused in a way he’s not used to. Bad memories still threaten to swarm him but he keeps them at bay by focusing on Athos, who is there to anchor him, holding him by the hip and by the shoulder, his hips moving relentlessly, slow and sure.

It's so good it makes Athos dizzy too, both from the pleasure and from the connection that comes with the act. His thrusts quicken when he can bear the slow pace no more, though he doesn't let himself get rough with Grimaud, not this time. "Touch yourself," he says against Grimaud's mouth, his back arching at how close he feels.

His breath catching, Grimaud slips a hand between them; he's gone a bit soft, but not entirely, his cock jerking each time Athos hits that place in him. His grip on himself is brutal, rough, too tight. He hisses out a sound like a plea, one suspiciously like Athos's name as he comes.

Athos groans at the feeling of Grimaud tightening around him, his hips snapping forward a few  times before he comes, burying himself as deeply as he can inside Grimaud. He shudders as pleasure washes over him, holding himself up on trembling arms, his head down.

With his nose in Athos's hair, Grimaud finally lets his eyes close, pushing lightly at Athos's shoulder so that he moves out but not too far away. Then they can catch their breaths together, holding each other close. Athos’s forehead is to Grimaud’s cheek and his eyes are closed, his hands gentle on Grimaud’s body. 

As he lies there still as stone, Grimaud's eyes sting traitorously and despite his ribs, he presses his face to Athos's neck to hide the sob that wants to  escape. Athos says no thing but he rolls on his side as well so he can embrace Grimaud, holding him tight. He doesn't know what this is exactly, but he knows that for Grimaud to display such weakness, it must be very distressing.

He kisses Grimaud's shoulder and strokes up and down his back, trying to provide comfort and love without causing Grimaud further alarm.

A small voice is telling Grimaud to flee, to run from this. To stonewall, to push back. His breathing hitches and when Grimaud whispers, the words are a hiss, "What have you done to me?" Not just the act of fucking, but so much more than that.

Love has been a weakness for Athos too, but not consistently enough that he would rej ect it as violently as Grimaud does. They are stronger together than apart, he thinks, two minds and hearts better than one. He closes his eyes and bows his head, stroking up Grimaud's back to hold him by the hair. "I will not apologize for loving you," he states, his voice quiet.

Love?! Grimaud jerks as if stricken. He looks at Athos, eyes sharp in the dark. "I tried to kill you. I abused you." 

Athos keeps his eyes closed, though he knows Grimaud is looking at him now, and most likely seeing right through him. He won't take it back, his eyebrows furrowing at the words. "I also tried  to kill you," he points out, finding the small scar he sewed up himself on Grimaud's thigh by touch. "And shot at you. And punched you in the face." He opens his eyes to look at Grimaud. "You didn't abuse me."

Grimaud stares back as if in challenge; clearly, he doesn't know what to do. His jaw works as he tries to figure it out. Finally, fisting his hand in Athos's hair, he rests their foreheads together. 

Smiling, Athos is aware that his lover is completely out of his depths. And that is sad, too, as  there is no worse fate than never loving or being loved.

Fatigue gradually outweighs his confusion and Grimaud sleeps, but it's fitfully at best. He wakes feeling more tired than he did, aching in a place he has not ached in a good while (along with his ribs) and with dark smudges under his eyes. There is no attempt to get up quietly, but he does sit up, his hair a nest of tangles, as he reaches for his trousers. 

Athos sleeps a little better than Grimaud but not much, cracking an eye open and lifting his head  when he feels him sit up. Grimaud's bedhead is spectacular this morning but Athos bites down a smile, merely watching him as he gets dressed. Grimaud's movements are still rigid and careful but his ribs seem to pain him less, and Athos knows there is only so long he can keep him in his room.

He won't say anything but he'll pull Grimaud down for a kiss when he is dressed, combing his hair back. There's a moment when Grimaud just looks down, not pulling away. When he looks up, he cants his head back, chin jutted forward, as he says, "I need a piece of paper and ink."

“Help yourself," Athos says quietly, gesturing towards his desk, his voice calm and steady.

Moving to the desk, Grimaud pulls out parchment and he dips a quill in the ink, nodding for Athos to come closer and look over his shoulder. He starts sketching a very raw map. "Go east from the city. Find Eparcy. Go south from there a few miles to what used to be a village. You will see the remains of the church. There is one cottage still standing. Meet me there tonight."

Nodding slowly, Athos takes the map from Grimaud. He knows where that village is, though he's never been to the other, abandoned one .He should be able to find that cottage.

"Very well," he answers, careful not to smudge the drying ink as he sets the map down. He doesn't ask why, or what's there. This may or may not be an exercise in trust, Athos's answer remains the same. He trusts Grimaud with his life, and that includes following cryptic instructions.

***

Athos isn't sure what to expect as he rides to the abandoned village after a long day. He  gets off his horse by the ruined church, tying it there and letting in graze. Musket out, he steps to the only remaining cottage, half-ready for battle. Grimaud is still looking for the remaining slavers, he wonders, is this where they hid?

The door of the small cottage, shoddy on the outside and not much better on the inside, opens and Grimaud steps out in just his tunic and trousers. He stands with no snarky comment this time, just saying, "welcome to my home." He’s standing stiffly, watching Athos, clearly nervous. 

Eyes widening, Athos lowers his musket. "Ah," he says, and then grins, a little ruefully. "I  thought this was an ambush," he explains. Seeing Grimaud without his weapons and out of his armour is unusual and he steps closer, carefully. Is this where Grimaud lives? It's... derelict to say the least. But Athos won't say that. Instead he will nod, and step into the small cottage. "Thank you for having me."

Inside, Grimaud has lit a fire, which makes the small, shabby space feel a bit warmer. The bed is narrow and there is a dusty rag doll resting on the chair, old and worn. On the table is cheese and bread and wine. This is not a comte's home, not by a long shot, but he is not ashamed.

The words don't come easily, but Grimaud says them. "This is one of the few places I stayed for any length of time when I was a child. The women took care of me before they had to move again."

Athos nods gravely to show he understands what this means to Grimaud, clasping his shoulder briefly. It's a hovel and something rebels inside Athos's chest at the idea that Grimaud has been  living there. But he will say nothing, removing his weapons belt and his pauldron and setting them by the fire.

With a subdued kind of formality, Grimaud pours the wine and pulls out the chair for Athos to sit. Perhaps it's a challenge; if Athos cannot bear it here, then he cannot bear Grimaud. This is Grimaud. The doll sits as a shabby reminder of his horrible childhood.

Holding his eyes, Athos sits down, taking the cup offered to him with a polite nod. This is the most formal meal they've had, Athos thinks. He sips from the wine and lifts his chin to look up at  Grimaud. "Was Feron fooled by your letters, then?" he inquires, calmly.

Pulling up a chair, Grimaud pulls his own battered cup close and nods, nose wrinkling. "He is vexed that the slaving seems to have come to an impasse," he says with grim pleasure. "I may be able to track the two who got away."

"Good," Athos agrees, leaning back in his rickety chair. "Let me know if the Garrison can help in any way." They are slightly overwhelmed with the women living there, but Athos will manage.  He considers Grimaud for a second, and then adds, "some of the women have been asking after you. They noticed you were not a Musketeer and wish to thank you."

Grimaud grunts in reply. "Tell them it isn't necessary," he replies more into his cup than anything else, before he reaches for bread. "You will be more eloquent with them."

"They thanked me already," Athos says, but he won't insist. Whatever Grimaud's reason for refusing are, they obviously stem from something painful and he doesn't mean to push the matter. "I shall tell them you wish them well, but cannot come," he offers.

Grimaud nods in agreement, then pushes the food in Athos's direction. Eat, Athos, the host insists.

Athos takes the food and starts eating, managing to look reasonably elegant though there is no cutlery at his disposal. He doesn't ask any questions. There are many things he wants to know about Grimaud (why does he live in a hovel? for sentimental reasons? because it is practical?) but Grimaud values his secrets and Athos won't take them from him. He doesn't need them to love Grimaud.

There is a gratitude for not being poked at, and that slightest bit of disappointment, too. But after eating, Grimaud stokes the fire and comes closer to Athos, pulling him close as they stand there in his room; he lifts his chin up for a kiss.

"I came here expecting an ambush," Athos says when Grimaud starts on his clothing, with just a hint of playfulness. "Perhaps I was right after all," he adds, arching his eyebrows and making Grimaud smirk in return.

This place, which might have been home to more nightmares than anything, will be made into something else that night. Perhaps even something like love.


	14. The Politics of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of the corners of Athos's mouth curves up and it looks nothing like a smile. He steps away slowly, painfully. "How often?" he inquires, though he knows the answer will hurt him. "How often do you let Feron touch you to further your -our- interests?"

Were Grimaud one to spend time to be introspective, he would marvel at how things change. Before, Feron was his most promising ally. One not to be trusted, vain and weak-willed, but still an asset to be managed to allow Grimaud to grow richer and more powerful in the shadows, no matter the casualties. 

Now when he interacts with Feron, it is for information, for the opportunity to find out what can make Paris - or France - into something more like Grimaud at his heart wants. One that takes care of all people, not just the aristocracy. One that doesn't involve the kind of nefarious plans that it had involved before.

Feron's touch, never enjoyed, is hardly tolerable now. It is necessary to let the man believe that there is a promise of more to keep him talking, but it is growing more and more difficult for Grimaud to control his disgust. 

It is particularly difficult on this day at the Palace, as Feron grips his hand, nuzzling his cheek against it. Grimaud allows it, grilling him for information. It turns Grimaud's stomach but he bites it back, extracting information from the man while cajoling him with medicine. He spares a thought for Athos as he does it, for the way the Musketeer has winnowed his way inside in, impossible to extract.

As Feron talks, Grimaud looks up and sees movement outside the barely open door of his office. He can feel Feron's clammy cheek against his knuckles as he meets familiar blue eyes.

Something lurches in his chest.

***

Athos is at the palace to see Treville about a small contingent of French soldiers being sent as an escort to the slaves they have freed. Most of them wish to go home and it makes ensuring their safety tricky. Treville agreed readily enough still, and Athos is headed back to the Garrison to make preparations for it.

He strides down a hallway, nodding his head politely at a noble lady (a friend of the Queen's, he thinks) as he passes her by. He doesn't know exactly what draws his gaze to the door of Feron’s office but he sees something move there and slows, tilting his head to see better.

He meets dark eyes and recognizes them at once, his own widening. What is Grimaud doing at the Palace? It takes him a second to understand what he is seeing. There is a hand on Grimaud's hip, intimate and proprietary, someone pressed close to him. As the person turns, pressing his cheek into Grimaud's hand where it is cupping it, Athos recognizes him. Feron.

It’s a few seconds before Athos manages to force himself to look away, and resume walking, striding to the end of the hallway and to the stables, where his horse awaits.

Grimaud's lip curls when he sees Athos stalk away. Pushing Feron back, he goes. He has all the information he needs, and he finds that Athos's reaction makes his skin tight and his belly ache. He snarls at the stableboy and makes to head to the Garrison, only stopping a few blocks from it; he can't be seen going there in the daylight. Instead, he will have to watch from the roof of a building that peers down into the Garrison's courtyard.

Somehow, Athos has made Grimaud feel worry. He should resent him for that, but all he can do now is bide his time until sunset.

Watching what is happening in the courtyard, it isn’t difficult to guess what mood Athos is in. He stands on the stairs stiffly and gives Treville's orders to a few Musketeers, his voice cold and his eyes blazing. Then he spots Aramis lounging in the sun and walks over, asking whether he wants to spar.

It becomes immediately clear that he won't go easy on his friend, fighting him rough and ruthless, even more so than the usual, to the point where Aramis spends most of his time dodging and stepping back to avoid getting hit. It’s lucky the training swords are dull, and whenever Athos manages to strike, he only leaves a faint bruise. d'Artagnan jumps into the fight after a while and it's more even like this, the two of them relentless against Athos.

When they have enough of him he goes to Porthos, ignoring the concern in his friends' eyes. Athos doesn't usually spar with Porthos. Porthos doesn't often spar with a sword, using his fists instead, and it's too unequal a fight, as he's much stronger than Athos, and almost as fast. Athos persists in his request and they fight for a long time, circling each other. Athos is clearly at a disadvantage but he holds his ground, rolling with the punches.

Concealed, Grimaud watches Athos strike and dodge and jump back with dark eyes. It’s quite the sight. Athos is skilled, using strategy rather than force. There's an elegance to how he moves. It stirs Grimaud, as does his anger.

Everything hurts when Athos finally stops and he's in total disarray, his skin bruised and his breath short. He feels no less angry. He avoids questions and makes for the kitchens, taking three bottles of wine he'll pay Constance for in the morning and making for his rooms, intent on drinking his anger away.

"Athos - " Aramis starts, before Porthos puts a hand to his chest and shakes his head. He knows that when Athos is like this, it's best to leave him to it alone. Hopefully, they will find out what has so perturbed their friend soon.

When he sees Athos take the wine, Grimaud's jaw tightens and he moves. It's not quite dark, but he will take his chances as the courtyard is mostly quiet. He sneaks in swiftly, and manages to catch Athos's door before it can quite shut. He slips inside and locks it. "Don't," he says, watching Athos’s back as he sets the bottles down on his desk. 

Athos’s whole frame tenses up at the word. His muscles hurt from exertion and anger but he doesn't relent, the line of his shoulders high and tense, his hackles up. He doesn’t turn around, taking one of the bottles and pulling the cork out with his teeth, drinking directly from it.

Moving quickly, Grimaud grasps the bottle and muscles it back from Athos's mouth, even if it splashes wine over papers and the like. "Athos."

Wine spills over Athos's chin and down his doublet and Athos finally turns to face Grimaud, his eyes blazing. There is a lot of anger on his face, and a good amount of pain, too.

Grimaud sets the bottle down and gets a hand around the back of Athos's neck, staring him in the eye. "It wasn't that. It's never been that." Will Athos believe him? Grimaud's stomach aches.

Athos chuckles, and it sounds hollow. He doesn't lean away, staring right back. "Don't you think I know that?" he asks, his voice low. The look of patient repulsion on Grimaud's face as Feron had pawed all over him had been clear enough. Grimaud doesn't like doing this, but he does it all the same, because he needs information. And Athos can't ask him to stop, because he needs information too.

Confusion paints itself over Grimaud's face and his hand tightens, his jaw working. He's rarely in his life had to admit that he doesn't understand something. This is one of those moments and he can't find the words.

Looking away and back towards the window, Athos watches the quickly darkening sky. "You called me foolish before," he states, self-deprecating. "You were right." 

Hand fisting in Athos's hair, Grimaud urges him to look at him again. He shakes his head, slowly. 

Athos is remarkable. He is everything that Grimaud is not; he is the light to the dark, the elegant to the grotesque. He is not foolish. "I didn't mean it," he says, dumbly.

One of the corners of Athos's mouth curves up and it looks nothing like a smile. The words are kind, oddly so for Grimaud. "But you were right nonetheless," he says quietly, looking back into Grimaud's eyes. He steps away slowly, painfully. "How often?" he inquires, though he knows the answer will hurt him. "How often do you let Feron touch you to further your -our- interests?"

Grimaud’s brow furrows at the distance both physically and in Athos's face. "It doesn't matter, Musketeer," he says, working to suss out how to manage this situation. "He can't touch me." Any way but physically, he means. If it isn't the idea that they are having sex - which he knows they aren't - why does Athos care? It doesn’t occur to him that Athos could feel concern over how much Grimaud hates to be doing this. He’s entirely unused to anyone paying that kind of attention to his well-being. 

"It matters," Athos corrects and the look on his face is darkening. "It matters to me, Lucien. Perhaps even more so because it doesn't matter to you." He lifts his chin, his eyes stormy. "What if it were me? What if Feron had an interest in me, and I decided to let him put his hands all over me as long as it would gain us knowledge about the Red Guard. Would it not matter?"

It's almost as bile rises in the back of Grimaud's throat. If anyone touches Athos, Grimaud will kill them. "What would you have me do? Reject him?" he asks archly. He does it for a reason. Everything he does for a reason, aside from how he feels for Athos.

"No," Athos says, face pained. "I cannot afford to ask this of you. Just like you could not afford to ask it of me, should our roles be reversed."

"Then don't think of it," Grimaud says, starting to move toward Athos again, needing to close the distance. "Just don't." It should be that simple, right?

"I could think of nothing else today," Athos answers, an agitated whisper. He doesn't step away when Grimaud comes close again, his eyes dark and unsettled. "Nothing else." Not even when Aramis's sword had scratched along his side or when Porthos had sent him tumbling into the dirt painfully.

That agitation? Grimaud can deal with it. He knows how. "Musketeer," he says, nearly crooning, even if his voice is rough. His hand tangles in Athos's hair and he pushes, urging him to his knees. "I am here, now. Here. With you."

Athos resists the push, his knees locking. His eyes search Grimaud's face for clues as to what this is, and why Grimaud wants this now. There are none but in the end it's easier to yield, easier to let Grimaud tell him what to do. He kneels abruptly, almost collapsing on himself, his head down.

Stepping forward, Grimaud lets Athos rest his forehead against his hip. It's easier, now, to say things - he doesn't have to look in Athos's eyes. He can feel some modicum of control. His fingers are gentle through Athos's hair, keeping him close. "Tell me what you want."

Closing his eyes, Athos breathes in the smell of leather and gunpowder. "I don't want to think," he says, and it's true. He wants to comply and do whatever Grimaud will ask of him.

Grimaud nods, his hand tightening in Athos's hair before he lets go. That's better. "Strip for me." He steps back to allow the room.

Athos  obeys. He sits back as he works on removing his belts, doublet, boots, trousers, chemise and braies, slowly going back to his knees when he is naked. He's not hard but he's calmer already, his heartbeat steadying.

"Eyes on me, Musketeer," Grimaud says, as he starts to strip too, piece by piece. He isn't hard yet either, but that will come. He crooks his fingers, beckoning Athos closer. From his wrist, he unties a leather strap. Crouching, he fastens the band securely around the base of Athos's cock. It's tight but not tight enough to be uncomfortable at the moment, and Athos isn't sure what the purpose of it is. He doesn't ask, still, looking back up when Grimaud stands. 

"Your mouth," Grimaud says, holding himself at the base, and Athos shuffles closer readily. His hands come to rest on the back of Grimaud's knees as he kisses, licks and suckles, working to get him hard, some of the tension in his body slipping away to be replaced with slow arousal.

"Good," Grimaud whispers, feeling the tendrils of his own pleasure start to coil around him. He keeps his hands in Athos's hair, not urging, just feeling. Athos is his, and beautiful like this.

Athos's eyes flutter shut at the word and he squeezes Grimaud's knees in answer, taking him deeper. He hollows his cheeks as he sucks, his own cock hardening between his legs. The leather strap there is growing tighter, tight enough to be uncomfortable, though it does not hurt.

He is an expert now at drawing Grimaud closer to his climax. He breathes deeper, letting the pleasure build, occasionally pulling Athos off so that he can take a breath, withdrawing slowly. "Close your eyes, Musketeer," he whispers when he can no longer hold himself back and Athos looks up to him hotly before he complies, licking his lips. 

With a tight groan, Grimaud strokes himself, coming on Athos's face, claiming and marking what is his. Come paints a hot stripe across Athos cheek, lips and chin and he shivers, holding still for it.

"Good," Grimaud pants as he feels the aftershocks of pleasure go up his spine sharply. Athos looks filthy like that, he thinks with a dark possessive pleasure. "Stay there. Don't move." 

The words make Athos shudder and he complies, staying still as Grimaud steps away, though his cock aches and come is dripping down his chin.

Getting a cloth and wetting it from Athos's pitcher, Grimaud comes over to wipe his face clean. He takes his time, tracing the lines of Athos's face as he washes, watching him shiver, his lips parting. There is an ease in Athos's face now, even as desires burns hotly through his body. “Do you want relief, Musketeer?"

Athos nods at the question, wondering whether he'll have to beg for it. It's not an unpleasant perspective.

"Perhaps you will tonight,” Grimaud says, slowly. “Or tomorrow." He sits, then lies back on the bed, urging Athos to join him. They can lie together. Athos’s breathing is too quick as he settles in bed but it is calm, and the line of his back has completely lost the tension that was there before. He’s hot to the touch, almost feverishly so. 

Slowly rolling to his side, Grimaud touches him proprietarily, hands running along Athos's side, occasionally cradling his cheek. "You belong to me," he says with a quiet certainty and Athos’s eyes dip half shut, his head tilting forward in silent agreement. There is no reason to contest or hide it, when they both know it is the truth.

There's a pause then Grimaud says what doesn't come easily, which seems to be the greatest risk of them all. "And I belong to you."

Athos looks up sharply, his eyes searching Grimaud's face. He reaches out this time, both hands around Grimaud's neck to pull him in for a passionate kiss. There is a hint of a smile in the kiss at Athos's reaction. Grimaud took the risk and it didn't backfire. "Easy," he whispers, petting Athos's hair, lips still touching.

Athos makes a noise of protest at being soothed like a child but he's smiling too, stroking his fingers against the nape of Grimaud's neck and kissing him again. The surge of emotion in Grimaud’s chest: it's warm and full and he doesn’t know what it means, terrifying and beautiful at once. 

Even as they kiss, Grimaud wraps his hand around Athos's cock, not stroking, just holding the warm, hard weight. He feels Athos buck against him, just once, before he can catch himself. He doesn't plead, letting Grimaud do what he wants and kissing him back, his eyes almost shut.

Such capitulation. All these years, Grimaud had craved power. He finds this is just as satisfying, When he has Athos like this, his control is complete. Athos's body feels heavy, grounded on the bed, but his mind is weightless, the agitation from the afternoon lifted from his thoughts. Athos shudders as Grimaud squeezes him gently, his lips parting and his eyes opening.

He finds Grimaud watching him through slitted eyes. He wants again, though his body does not yet respond. "You'll spill when I do," Grimaud tells him. In the meantime, they will kiss and touch and he will tease, drawing Athos to the brink before bringing him back, again and again.

It makes Athos breathless with need in very little time, his fingers digging into Grimaud's back as he's brought so close to climax and then left to cool down. He doesn't protest any of it, panting when Grimaud finally presses slick fingers inside of him and pushes his legs up, and moaning when he works his cock in, so deep Athos has to reach up to hold onto the headboard, his back arching.

As pleasure draws a contented groan from him, it doesn't occur to Grimaud that this is what love is. The want, the comfort, the way that even though they have done this so many times, it never gets old or tedious.

He merely considers it a power that Athos has over him, a power he gladly grants. He forces himself to move slowly, nearly pulling entirely out, then pushing in, rocking Athos's body into the bed.

Athos's head is tilted back and his eyes are dark slits, his lips parted. He tries not to be too loud and somewhat fails, hissing between clenched teeth when Grimaud presses against that spot inside of him that feels so good.

This loss of composure only fuels what Grimaud does, how he loves, how deeply he thrusts. He doesn't yet remove the leather around Athos's cock, letting that push him and taunt him even more. 

Athos’s body aches as he feels his climax build, his fingers white with tension on the headboard. His pleasure crests and he waits for the long, shuddering fall that brings relief. Except it does not come. His body seems stuck just before climax, the pleasure intense enough to make him clench around Grimaud and pant to catch his breath. He bites on his own lower lip to muffle a somewhat pitiful moan, his cock red and too hard between their bodies.

When Grimaud comes, it is with with a grateful sound, thrusting hard into that clench of body, his face pressed to Athos's neck. Only then does he loosen the leather, letting it fall on the bed. He keeps a tight grip on Athos's cock, wanting to feel him when he comes.

Hissing, Athos can feel his whole body go tense and tight, almost overwhelmed by the sensation of his long-stoppered climax. He gasps and tries to catch his breath, meeting Grimaud's eyes when he starts stroking him. He comes almost immediately, making no noise at all as his hips buck into Grimaud's touch, his climax washing over him for so long it leaves him weak and shaky when it recedes, his breath short and his heart pounding.

"There .... " Grimaud gathers Athos close, his cheek against Athos's forehead. There. A part of him trembles in this moment, deep inside. Externally, only his hands shake. He buries one in Athos's hair. The other presses to Athos’s hip, and he closes his eyes.

Still against Grimaud until the tremors running through him recede and his heartbeat is back to normal, Athos feels sweaty and tired now, some of the aches of the day returning to his body. He wraps his own arm around Grimaud's back, kissing his shoulder. "Thank you," he says, very quietly.

That's another thing that Grimaud isn't used to: being thanked. For what? He just shakes his head, a jerking motion, even as he keeps Athos close. He wonders if they should discuss Feron further but Athos says nothing, and Grimaud doesn’t want to broach the subject again. What is left to say? He'll deal with Feron.

Stroking his hand up and down Grimaud's back slowly, over scars and warm skin, Athos kisses his shoulder, and open display of affection.

"Is there food where that wine came from?" Grimaud asks. He hasn't eaten all day and he feels ravenous now. He'd watched Feron eat grapes earlier and it had turned his stomach.

Athos grins against Grimaud's shoulder, leaning back just a little look at him. "I didn't bring any, but there is downstairs." He stretches his legs and gives Grimaud a quick kiss before sitting up, combing his hair back with both hands. He'll clean himself by the water bucket and get dressed slowly, frowning at the blooming bruises he finds on his body. That's what he gets for sparring with Porthos, it seems.

He won't be the only one frowning. Grimaud wouldn't want his bruises to be fussed over, though, so he keeps his tongue, just barely. "That big one," he notes, referring to Porthos. "He is a brawler."

"Porthos?" Athos asks, looking up as he puts his trousers back on. "He is. I sparred with him this afternoon." His grin is small and crooked. "It was a mistake."

"You fight clean," Grimaud notes, sitting up against Athos's headboard, sprawled naked and unashamed. "Could've had him if you'd fought dirty."

"You watched us?" Athos asks, surprised. 

Grimaud doesn't answer, which is the answer. "I couldn't come to you when the sun was still up, could I?"

That Grimaud wanted to come to Athos in broad daylight is enough to make him smile. He leans in and kisses Grimaud's brow, touching his hair gently. "I won't be long. Don't go anywhere."

Grimaud hums a sound, settling back. Where would he go? He'll clean himself while Athos is gone, marvelling at how comfortable he feels here, regardless of the surroundings.

When Athos appears on the balcony, Porthos nudges Aramis, who looks up. Athos doesn't look drunk. That's good, at least. He also looks a lot more relaxed than he has all day, the line of his shoulders lower and easier. He disappears into the kitchens and comes out with a tray of food. There is too much for one person, the other Musketeers notice. 

Aramis doesn't immediately put it together with stitching Grimaud up a few weeks prior, but he will at some point. Either way, he raises a brow at Porthos, before calling out, "everything all right, Captain?"

Athos looks up to where Aramis and Porthos are staring at him and gives them a small nod, his eyebrows arching. He will give nothing away, knowing that his friends are too sharp for their own good.

Interesting. Very, very interesting. Aramis and Porthos exchange glances and Porthos shrugs. Whatever it takes for Athos not to be a prickly bear? He'll take.

Grimaud has been listening at the door, stepping back when he hears Athos approach. He raises his brows as he steps in. Everything all right, Captain?

"They're going to find out, sooner or later," Athos says, to that look. His friends know him too well to miss this entirely.

It probably says a lot that Grimaud's first thought is that this will be when he kills them. He takes the tray to the bed, already picking up a chunk of bread to bite into it. "You risk hanging," he reminds Athos.

"I do not," Athos answers, immediately. "I keep many of their secrets. They will keep mine." Of this, he is sure. Whatever his friends might think about this dalliance with Grimaud, they will not denounce it.

To have such loyalty. Grimaud stares, not even bothering to try to imagine what that is like. He chews. "Then, are you worried?"

"I am not," Athos assures, coming to sit on the bed to share the food. He is not ashamed, either. “Are you?" he returns, watching Grimaud. "They might demand answers of you."

"Only Feron," Grimaud says. The rest he can handle. He can even handle Feron, with the right amount of time and effort. But Feron controls Marcheaux and the Red Guard, as incompetent as they are, and it will take some work to bring them down. Grimaud is determined to do it, still. 

Athos snorts. "Feron won't find out." There is no reason for him to. "He does not know me, and he does not know you." He takes a bite from a carrot, arching his eyebrows at Grimaud.

If that is true, then they have nothing to worry about. Grimaud arches a brow in reply, then, and starts to eat more earnestly. He's hungry. His foot rests against Athos's thigh and he gets a smile in reply as they eat in silence, sitting close to each other.


	15. For France

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It abruptly occurs to Grimaud that perhaps, in this game he is playing, Feron isn't his greatest asset anymore. Athos is. 
> 
> Isn't that something. 

As it turns out, even Grimaud’s patient placating isn’t enough to keep Feron under control. He has been sulky for weeks, sullen and snarky even with Grimaud. Then came the warning: "I will do what I need to do to prove myself to you, Lucien," Feron promised. This was no idle threat, Grimaud knew, yet no amount of coaxing and threatening could make Feron reveal what his plan was. 

It's a tense few weeks. Not between Grimaud and Athos, as it seems they understand each other better than ever, but between the King, the Queen, Feron, and the Red Guard. When the anniversary of Louis and Feron's father's death comes around, the King decides to go on a pilgrimage, petulantly taking Aramis with him. 

It feels like a very pointed choice of escort and Athos cannot help but worry about what the King knows. He’s at the Garrison when Grantaire shows up at his elbow, shoving a note into his hand. 

_ Come quickly. Bring reinforcements. _

No signature needed, Athos is very familiar with Grimaud’s scratchy handwriting by now. He thanks Grantaire and directs him to the kitchens, ringing the alarm to gather Musketeers and taking as many as are available with him. 

Grimaud does not wait, making his way to the mausoleum, just in time to see Feron storm out with a ridiculously small pistol. He’s grinning smugly, stepping closer to Grimaud. "This is what we wanted, Lucien. He's dying and we will hasten it. Then I will have what I want." The look on his face makes it clear that Grimaud is part of that want. 

It makes Grimaud’s stomach curdle. "If he is dying," he asks, working to buy time, "why rush?"

"I have so little time, Lucien. Why wait?"

Something lands on Grimaud's shoulders. A mantle of what he was prior to meeting Athos, a coldness. He can hear horse hooves in the distance, the troop of Musketeers coming closer. Just a little longer, then. For once, he needs a witness.

"You want to be King? " he asks. "To rule France by force?"

That makes Feron laugh, viciously. "When did we want anything else?"

It's true, that is what Grimaud had wanted. He hears shouting behind them, as the Red Guard rushes to stop the Musketeers, and he pulls his knife into his sleeve. He can see Athos stride closer behind Feron, slashing through the Red Guard and putting his hand on his pistol when he realizes what is happening. 

"You wish to kill the King," Grimaud says, loud enough to be heard. "I cannot allow that." He grasps Feron's arm and stabs the knife between his ribs. It only takes a second and Grimaud twists the knife as he pulls it out, making sure the blow will be lethal. Feron actually looks shocked as he falls, grasping at Grimaud, betrayal obvious on his face. 

Grimaud wipes his knife clean, watching Feron’s sagging body with very little emotion. He steps back, easily finding Athos’s eyes. There is surprise on Athos’s face, not that Grimaud would kill someone so easily, but that he would take the King’s side so drastically. 

There is a dark rueful amusement in Grimaud's gaze: he is, perhaps, the only one who would find it amusing that he saved the king from an assassination attempt. He steps over Feron’s body and closer to Athos, sheathing his knife. They stare at each other for a few seconds before yelling and gunshots erupt in front of the Mausoleum, the Red Guard and the Musketeers not bothering to pretend they are on the same side anymore. 

"Your friend," Grimaud notes, nodding toward the Mausoleum. 

"The King has taken him along on his pilgrimage," Athos explains. He cannot reveal why this is concerning, but he will let Grimaud see his concern. “Take my horse, if you wish to leave,” he adds, watching Grimaud. Athos himself must stay to fight the Red Guard and help Aramis, but if Grimaud wishes to disappear in the shadows again and avoid getting caught with Feron’s blood on his hands, he will not stop him. 

Grimaud shakes his head, just once, drawing his sword. He doesn't particularly want to see the King or help him, but he has started this and will see it to its end. He motions for Athos to go ahead. He won’t show himself but he’ll help from the shadows, and make sure the Red Guard is defeated. 

There is gratefulness on Athos’s face as he nods to Grimaud, and no small amount of pride. He lifts his pistol as he enters the Mausoleum, letting Grimaud melt into the shadows as he strides forward. 

The Red Guard’s orders, Athos understands soon enough, are to kill Aramis and keep the King hostage until they hear from Feron. Aramis is fighting as well as he can but there are too many of them, and he can barely keep them from the King. Athos shoots one in the back and discards his musket, jumping into the fray with his sword out to help his friend and save his King.

If Grimaud fires, he'll give away his position. Instead, he works with his sword and knife, sneaking up behind the Red Guard and felling them one by one. When the Red Guard have been dealt with, Grimaud slips back into an alcove, listening intently. 

"You will never ever cross paths with the Queen again. I will make sure of that," the King is saying spitefully, even after Aramis risked his life to save him. It makes Grimaud scowl, his head tilting to the side. There is more to this, he knows, and it isn’t terribly difficult to imagine why the King might not want Aramis near the Queen. 

More Musketeers are streaming into the Mausoleum now, securing the entire building and dragging the injured Red Guard outside. Breathless, Aramis sheaths his sword and looks over to Athos when the King demands an explanation. 

Athos bows and tells him the truth: Feron's betrayal and the Red Guard ready to kill him. He doesn't mention Grimaud by name, but does say that a loyal soldier stopped the treasonous governor. 

"Philippe?" Louis asks, sounding stunned, looking tired and older. "He wouldn't."

Rolling his eyes toward the ceiling, Grimaud shakes his head. Of course the King doesn't believe him.

Aramis is about to speak up, about what they've seen, about what he knows, but he doesn't dare, so Athos will take that responsibility. He steps up once more and calmly explains that he was there when Feron stated he meant to kill the King and take the throne for himself. How he saw the Red Guard attack the Musketeers and try to keep the King captive until Feron arrived. He also says that, unfortunately, Feron was killed during the battle.

At that, Louis staggers, reaching out to catch himself against a stone wall. "He's dead? I need to see him." When Athos and Aramis don't answer immediately, he shouts, "Show me his body!"

Grimaud feels himself snarl, but Athos doesn't flinch. He is used to the King's outbursts. He bows and leads Louis outside, retracing his steps to where Feron fell, at the foot of a tree.

From just inside the church, Grimaud watches the King kneel by Feron, seemingly afflicted despite his betrayal. He watches on as Athos stands by the sobbing King silently, as Aramis crosses himself. Minister Treville arrives soon after, and manages to convince the King to safely return to the Palace. Feron’s body is covered, and taken along to the Louvres. 

Athos stays behind to make sure the injured Musketeers are taken care of, and after that to look for Grimaud, when it has grown quiet and everyone else has left. Grimaud steps out, pushing his hood back from his head. He doesn't speak; what is there to say? It seems he's made a decision without giving it much thought at all. Feron is dead. He feels nothing.

"Are you unharmed?" Athos asks quietly, stepping closer and looking into Grimaud's eyes. That coldness that leveled itself on Grimaud lingers for a moment before Athos's gaze helps it to crack; perhaps it's visible to the one who knows him so well. He shakes his head; he wasn't hurt. But he's just killed his greatest asset aside from the annoying Gaston, who he'd just as soon do without, quite honestly. He is on entirely foreign ground, and he does not like it.

Athos waits for the ice on Grimaud’s face to melt before smiling a little, glancing at where Feron lay. "Thank you," he says, quietly, and when Grimaud shakes his head, he steps closer. He doesn't know whether it was difficult for Grimaud to kill Feron or not, but he appreciates what he did to save the King, despite it all. “Thank you, Lucien,” he repeats, holding Grimaud’s eyes.

It abruptly occurs to Grimaud that perhaps, he did not kill his greatest asset after all. Feron hasn’t been his greatest asset for weeks. Athos is. 

Isn't that something. 

"You’ll have a funeral to attend," Grimaud notes instead of voicing that thought. Not bothering to stop himself, he reaches out, cupping Athos's cheek. After all, he did this for Athos, not for the King.

"Thanks to you, it won't be the King's," Athos says, softly. He turns his head to kiss Grimaud's palm. Grimaud might not have done this for Louis but he did it nonetheless, and Athos is grateful. "Come to me when you can," he requests, hopeful. He gets a nod in reply, Grimaud stepping away.

Athos rides back to the Louvres, spending a long time in Treville's office, discussing the situation at hand. Then he does attend the ceremony in Feron's honor, though the funeral will only be the next morning. He goes back to the Garrison in the evening, tired and thoughtful, unsure how things will unfold and what balance will be found now that Feron has been removed from the situation. Athos won't miss him, that much is for sure, as he won't miss the constant jealousy he felt whenever he thought about Feron putting his hands on Grimaud.

It's near midnight when Grimaud lets himself in Athos’s room. He spent his day at the Louvres too, sneaking into Feron’s office to get anything that could be useful, including keys. Then he had to confront Marcheaux and make sure he was still under control, hide some of Feron’s secret paperwork in his cottage, cover all of his tracks, and deal with Gaston, putting off wringing his neck for yet another day. He is weary now, from dealing with the fallout of his own actions.

Already in bed, Athos is reading to the weak flickering light of a candle reaching its end. He lifts his head when Grimaud comes to sit on the bed, watching his face carefully. His lover looks exhausted but he doesn't look upset or hurt. He moves closer, slipping his hands under Grimaud’s doublet to help him remove it, and then under his chemise, stroking over warm skin. 

"Tired?" he whispers, kissing Grimaud's shoulder gently. His eyes slipping shut, Grimaud nods. "All well with the Minister?," he asks. He'd heard the church bells ring for Feron. "And the King?"

"In a manner of speaking. The King mourns Feron, even though he knows he betrayed him," Athos answers quietly, stroking Grimaud’s back and chest gently, then through his hair. "Treville is unsure what will become of the Red Guard now."

"Marcheaux is a fool. I can control him for a while, but not forever," Grimaud tells him, leaning back against him. It's easy to forget that he's not as tall nor as broad as Athos, except for times like these. "If they are disbanded, they will be even more of a problem." Louis is a fool as well, but Grimaud holds his tongue against that sentiment. 

Athos wraps his arms around Grimaud's chest and leans his cheek against his shoulder, holding him close. "That's what I told Treville, and he agreed," he says quietly. "One solution would be to send them to war," he reveals, thoughtful. It's not ideal, but at least they will be far from Paris.

"You've given up wanting to win the war, then?" Grimaud asks over his shoulder, tone dry. Athos snorts, meeting Grimaud's eyes. "This was a foolish war from the start," he states, because it is the truth. Treville knows it, too, though he would not say it aloud. 

Grimaud doesn’t disagree, but he dislikes the idea nonetheless. Soldiers like those are the ones who attacked women like his mother. "Put them all in the Bastille. They'll do less harm there."

"For what?” Athos inquires. “Most of them have done nothing illegal yet."

"We could find something. We just need to keep them away from women and children." Grimaud doesn't think anything of this  _ we _ , but it makes Athos smile. They're in this together now, aren't they?

"We will," Athos assures. They're clever and resourceful, and he has no doubt they can come up with something to solve this problem. He holds Grimaud a little tighter, nodding against his shoulder. "We'll make sure of that."

Not too long ago, the idea of relaxing in someone's arms would have been ridiculous to Grimaud. Now he lies here, thinking only fleetingly of Feron. "What was the King saying about your Musketeer friend not seeing the queen again?"

Athos doesn't say anything for a few seconds, before he replies, "that he should not see her again."

Grimaud slants a glance back at Athos, unimpressed. Well, if Athos doesn’t want to share, Grimaud won’t push. At the moment, anyway. "Will you go to the funeral tomorrow?"

"My absence would be suspicious," he says, which is his way of saying he doesn't want to, but will be required to. "Will you?"

A small nod is Athos's answer. Grimaud will go, if for no other reason to see who else goes. He will lurk at the back, of course. He still needs to take off his trousers, though he's loathe to move. "Feron was dying," he says, though he knows Athos knows that as well. "Why try to do what he was doing now?"

It's something he's been thinking about. Feron's words ring in his ears:  _ I will prove myself to you, Lucien. _

"What do you mean?" Athos inquires, stroking his hands up and down Grimaud's chest gently. This is very comfortable, he finds, holding Grimaud close in the peaceful candlelight of his room.

"He wouldn't live long, even if he was unopposed," Grimaud points out. "Why try to kill Louis now?"

"Perhaps pain made him lose his mind?" Athos offers, thoughtfully. Feron was always unstable. "Did he say anything to you?" he asks, curious.

There's only the briefest of pauses and Grimaud shakes his head. Nothing that needs to be shared; an old part of him, not quite banished yet, keeps what Feron said in passing -  _ The King is dying and we will hasten it _ \- to himself. He shifts in Athos's arms to face him, his eyes heavy with fatigue.

"What’s done is done. It does not matter now," Athos says, looking up to meet Grimaud's eyes. He smiles, a small but honest smile, and gives him a light kiss. "Let's sleep."

With a grumble, Grimaud gets up to remove the rest of his clothing. He gets back into bed quickly, reaching over to run his thumb along Athos's lower lip. "Good night, Musketeer," he whispers.

"Good night, Lucien," Athos returns, smiling at the touch, pulling the blankets over both of them. 


	16. Hot and Heavy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are a lot of scars on Grimaud’s body and Athos follows them all with gentle fingers. He knows it is not necessarily easy for Grimaud to bare himself like this and allow this intimacy, but the scars make Grimaud who he is, and he loves them too. 

It has come to this: when Athos shifts awake in the morning, Grimaud shifts too. He comes awake immediately, sighing against Athos’s shoulder. They both know that after Feron's death, today will be a day for politics. 

"Today, the bells shall toll for Feron,” Grimaud says, quietly. “Most Parisians will not know what a wretched man he really was. How he cared so little for any of them."

"We'll know," Athos returns, his voice low with sleep. He leans away just a little so he can look at Grimaud's face. "And I'll know how you protected the King, and did all of Paris a service," he adds, quietly. He reaches out and cups Grimaud's cheek, stroking over his cheekbone with his thumb as Grimaud makes a face.

The mantle of hero of Paris hardly sits well on Grimaud's shoulders and he shrugs a little, happy to remain in the shadows when it comes to heroics. Athos’s touch makes his eyelids dip and a shiver go down his spine. He knows better than to ask about staying in bed still; a Musketeer has his duties and all that. So he contents himself with one kiss before he slowly and reluctantly pushes himself to sitting, running his fingers through his hair.

Athos smiles at the way Grimaud’s hair has become dishevelled during the night, and he too has to resist the urge to topple him back into the warm sheets. His duty does comes first, but by a shamefully small margin today.

It ends up being an exhausting day. Athos attends Feron’s funeral gravely, looking appropriately somber though he does not feel much sadness for the Minister’s passing. Louis gives a long, somewhat rambling speech about how much he loved his brother, and the Court feigns to be aggrieved. Athos cannot wait for it to end.

After the funeral, there are meetings with Treville and the other Musketeers about the Red Guard and who to choose as the new governor of Paris. Athos is also summoned to the Royal Council, only to learn that it was adjourned as the King left in a huff. He goes back to the Garrison after dinner and finds himself yearning for a hot bath. It's a luxury he doesn't indulge in too often but he feels he has earned it. He leaves a note for Grimaud on the bed, with the address of the bath house he usually goes to, if he wants to join in.

About an hour later, Athos is up to his chin in a wooden tub of almost too hot water, his eyes closed as he relaxes completely, a half-full bottle of wine and an empty glass on the small table next to the tub.

***

While Athos spent the day wondering how to best uphold the law, Grimaud spent his planning machinations in the shadows. Gaston was allowed to the funeral under guard, looking sullen and entitled the entire time, and Grimaud watched the King and Queen grieve or pretend to, noting the King’s pale face and the dark rings under his eyes. He watched the Musketeers too, Athos looking dignified in full uniform, and the Musketeer Aramis who kept glancing at the Queen. 

If asked, he would say that funerals strike him as so sanctimonious. Pretending to care is draining, it seems, judging from how hard people work at it.

When he finds the note, he slips back out of the Garrison and down the street, his hood up, moving silently in the dusky shadows. He enters through the back of the bathhouse, then peers into various doors until he sees Athos there.

Hot steam strikes him as he steps into the room, gazing at how relaxed Athos is.

"Tis is your idea of a relaxing evening, Musketeer?"

Athos opens one eye to make sure it’s Grimaud, and closes it back. He's flushed with the heat of the water, his cheeks pink and his hair wet, sticking to his forehead and neck. "Yes," he answers calmly, and grins. "I dread to ask what's yours." Athos misses it because his eyes are closed, but Grimaud nearly smiles at that, staying mum.

When he's secured the door as best he can (there are so few people in the world that he trusts), Grimaud piles up his weapons and starts to peel off his clothes, the under layers in definite need of a good scrubbing, stained with dust and sweat..

Slowly, he slips into the water; it immediately warms him - it's rare that he's had a warm bath, often bathing in creeks and streams. He sinks down to his chin quickly, settling as Athos makes room for him, watching him with warm eyes. Athos’s hand comes to rest on Grimaud's shin and he smiles, arching his eyebrows. Not that bad, is it?

Grimaud returns the look wryly. Not terrible, no, once things settle and legs get sorted. There's soap too and there is the thought that the water will turn gray when Grimaud washes. He's a bit ashamed of that, so he doesn't reach for it right away.

Stroking his thumb over Grimaud’s ankle, Athos smiles as Lucien gazes at him evenly - and yes, warmly, if one knows where to look. It feels like a promise, one that warms Grimaud even more than the bath. 

"How did you find the funeral, then?" Athos inquires, quietly. 

"A lesson in hypocrisy. Surely Feron wasn't that well-liked," Grimaud replies dryly. "But to pretend to be so saddened must be quite tiring."

"That is the way of the Court. They will weep today, and spit on his grave tomorrow, if the King decides he was a traitor after all."

"Another way in which I am different from the King," Grimaud observes with dark sarcasm. "Should someone try to kill me, I would view them as a traitor." He slips calloused fingers along the inside of Athos's calf.

"Even if it were your brother, whom you cherished despite his flaws?" Athos asks, arching his eyebrows. 

Grimaud has no siblings. He watches Athos, viewing that clue as what it is, a clue. "Did your brother try to kill you?" he asks, voice low, not arch but actually caring and curious.

"No," Athos says, slowly. "He did not." He watches Grimaud in return, pondering whether he wants to talk about this now. "There was a matter with my wife."

Grimaud's hand tightens on Athos's calf. He won't push, but he can assume and if Athos wants to talk of it, he will listen.

"She killed him," Athos says after a while, quiet but clear. The story is still painful, even after all these years, but he feels that Grimaud deserves to know this about him. "At the time, I assumed it was because he had found out about her past, and how she had lied to me. She said he had tried to force himself upon her, but I did not believe her. Now, I think she was telling the truth." 

It had been a difficult realization to come to, but after making his peace with Anne, he does believe it to be true. 

Taking that in, Grimaud just watches him. That Athos's wife killed his brother because he forced himself on her - well, he can respect that. Had he been stronger as a boy, he would have done the same.

"Your brother dishonored you by pushing himself on your wife," he points out. "What happened with your wife when you found out?"

"I didn't believe her. No one did. She had lied and lied again about who she was and where she came from, so that I would marry her." Athos looks back up to Grimaud. He feels shame for this, though he'd thought it the right thing to do at the time. "I was a Count, then. I had to uphold the law."

Which means, Grimaud knows, that she had to be put to death. If she had indeed lied and killed, then it was the right thing to do, as difficult as it may have been. He massages the muscle of Athos's calf.

Grimaud's apparent lack of judgement helps Athos plow through the end of the story, relaxing a little at the gentle touch. "I couldn't bear to watch her hang so I came to Paris instead. Became a drunk." The corner of his mouth curves up, mirthlessly. "Fell into a well." Grimaud knew that part. "Then a Musketeer."

He sighs, quietly. "I found out many years later that she had escaped her hanging. She burned the house down and tried to kill me." He seems thoughtful for a second, before adding. "We've made our peace, now."

"Is she still in Paris?"

"She was in England, the last time I heard. Her rich old husband had mysteriously met a precocious end," Athos states, arching his eyebrows. He'll always have feelings for Anne, she is too big a part of his life for him not to, but he does not wish to find her and build a new life with her now, not as he used to.

"Do you still love her?" Grimaud asks, the words sounding strange on his tongue.

Athos watches Grimaud for a few seconds, and tells him the truth. "I'll always love her," he says, quietly. "But there is too much between us, now." He smiles, tilting his head to the side, the water touching his chin. "And I have you."

Under the water, Grimaud slips his hand up Athos's leg, onto his thigh and higher. He doesn't know how to respond to the story verbally, so he responds physically. Athos grins in reply and sits up, slipping wet fingers into Grimaud's hair and pulling him in for a kiss.

As he nearly always does, Grimaud kisses with his eyes open, watching as Athos’s fall shut. He cups Athos's cock as he licks into his mouth, feeling Athos lean into the touch. He’s growing hard already and leans away to rest his forehead against Grimaud's, smiling. "We should wash before the water gets filthy," he whispers, stroking Grimaud's shoulders.

Grimaud nods and gives Athos's cock a squeeze before leaning back to reach for the soap. He lathers it between his hands and takes Athos’s wrist, washing up his arm. Body part by body part, he will do this.

Eyebrows arching a little, Athos lets him, presenting his arms and chest for Grimaud to scrub. Then he will silently offer the same, his calloused fingers gentle as he washes Grimaud’s hands, massaging the tense muscles, his arms and shoulders, and then down his chest. He’s careful over Grimaud’s ribs and only goes over his nipples once, gently.

There are a lot of scars on Grimaud’s body and Athos follows them all with gentle fingers. He knows it is not necessarily easy for Grimaud to bare himself like this and allow this intimacy, but the scars make Grimaud who he is, and he loves them too. 

"Turn around, " Grimaud tells Athos when he’s done, taking the soap again. He'll do Athos’s back.

It takes a moment for Athos to do so, as he’s careful not to make water slosh over the edge of the tub. He kneels up to bare his back, reaching out to hold onto the edges of the tub, his shoulders back. It throws the muscles in his shoulders in sharp relief even as he relaxes and lets his head loll forward, enjoying the slick caress of Grimaud’s soapy fingers. 

Grimaud takes his time, running his hands over Athos's back, down the muscle and bone, to the curve of his ass. Perhaps in a way, Athos has tamed Grimaud, made him more civilized. In this way, Grimaud is very much the alpha animal. When he feels Athos give over, he growls, pressing closer, his erection nestled in the cleft of Athos's ass. 

Athos likes him like this, too. He spends so much time being dutiful and in control, giving orders to the Garrison and taking responsibility for all of them. At night, it's incredibly freeing to just give himself over and let Grimaud decide. He leans back against Grimaud, reaching back to slip his fingers through Grimaud’s wet hair. 

"Do you want it?" Grimaud asks, his voice low, and Athos nods, letting his head fall back against Grimaud’s shoulder. It won’t be comfortable without the oil they usually use but unlike the first time they did this, Grimaud will not try to hurt Athos. He will try to be as gentle as he can, using soapy fingers to do that modicum of loosening, of preparing. He wants Athos so much that he aches with, cock jerking against Athos's skin. He still gives Athos the time he needs, feeling him flinch away from the sting of the soap and the burn of the intrusion before he pushes back into it. 

The discomfort does nothing to make Athos want this any less and he turns his head to hide his face into Grimaud's neck, his back arching. He gasps when Grimaud starts to work his cock inside him slowly, wrapping his hand around himself to help his body relax.

It is not an easy slide and Grimaud goes slowly, pressing deeper inch by inch, even though it only makes him want Athos more, his hands trembling roughly with it. 

It's very nearly painful like this but it's nothing like the first time they did this, as Athos knows what to expect and wants it so badly his cock is dripping over his own fingers. He shudders when Grimaud's hips finally press against his, feeling stretched and over-sensitive.

They stay still for a second, panting in the steamy room, Athos’s knuckles white against the edge of the tub. He can hear Grimaud breathe through his nose unsteadily and then gasp as Athos clenches around him. Grimaud growls, urging him back as he flexes his hips forward, a little sharply, sending a heady bolt of pleasure through them both. 

Athos has to bite on his lower lip to stifle a cry as Grimaud finds his rhythm, moving deep and hard inside him. It's a lot of friction and it does hurt a little, though it's entirely worth it for the burst of pleasure that follows, his cock jerking against his stomach. He can’t help but clench again, though it does not make this any easier. 

The added tightness only serves to drive Grimaud wilder and he moves harder, ducking his head to suck a mark into Athos's neck, a claiming stamp as his movements go quicker, more forceful, eyelids heavy with pleasure.

Athos can feel his neck tingle where Grimaud is sucking and what this will mean later when the mark lingers makes him groan again. He rolls his hips with Grimaud's, his breath hitching every time he roughly pushes in. He'll be tender for days, Athos knows, and won't regret it for a second. He bites on his lower lip to muffle a moan and strokes himself quicker, feeling his pleasure build.

At the last moment, Grimaud reaches around, his hand tightening around Athos’s cock, fingers pinching around the base his cock. The pleasure will be there, staying, but it won't spill over. Tonight, Grimaud will make Athos exquisitely suffer.

That's unexpected and it makes Athos jerk, gasping at the feeling and at what Grimaud means to do. He shudders and bucks against his lover, the sensation overwhelming as his pleasure builds and crests, but doesn't go over the edge. He groans when he feels Grimaud come, his hips stuttering against Athos's ass, body rigid as the pleasure washes over and through him.

It’s enough to make Athos shake, his cock hard and hot in Grimaud’s grip, his entire body going tight and wound. He squeezes his eyes shut and breathes raggedly through the pain and pleasure of it. Grimaud keeps his forehead pressed to the back of Athos's neck, slowly coming to his senses and focusing out how Athos is trembling against him. 

This, they both know, is an exercise in control. Athos wants it as much as he dreads it. He makes a small noise when Grimaud pulls out, his grip still tight on Athos's cock. Not yet, it means, and Athos goes with it, shouldering the torment and pent-up desire of it. 

There is a kiss pressed to Athos’s shoulder, almost reassuringly. Grimaud won’t make him go the entire night without coming, just a while. This way Athos will remember how good it is to wait.

Grimaud stands up, feeling his knees rebel at the action, then he reaches down a hand to help Athos up as well. It takes a few seconds for Athos to push his own arousal down enough that he can function, standing up when Grimaud pulls him along. His ass stings and he feels too hot now that he is standing, almost dizzy. He meets Grimaud's gaze with dark eyes but says nothing, shivering.

Reaching up, Grimaud cups his cheek, thumb running along the light fuzz of Athos's beard. "Let's go to your room, Musketeer," he says, moving his thumb to run along Athos's lower lip. He steps out, then helps Athos out too before he starts to put on his clothes, not bothering to dry himself.

Mechanically, Athos towels himself dry, arching an eyebrow when Grimaud just puts his clothes back on. He hands the towel over so Grimaud can use it on his hair, slowly working to dress himself. It's not an easy task, between his erection and the sting in his ass but he manages, buttoning his doublet up as they step out.

Grimaud shares one more glance with Athos, a silent promise, before going another direction. 

He'll be at Athos's about five minutes after Athos gets there, eager to make him yearn and shake. He shuts and locks the door before turning to look at Athos, wearing a smirk. "How are you feeling, Musketeer?" he asks. 

"Aroused," Athos answers honestly, his voice low but calm. He has taken off his doublet, his boots and his hat already, and is sitting on his bed. He hasn't removed his trousers yet, though the urge to stroke himself to completion was difficult to resist. He wants to play this game still, and see what Grimaud will ask of him.

"Good." Indeed, Grimaud's pleasure at that answer is deep, residing in his belly. Athos watches him with dark eyes, shuddering at the praise. He can't help it. He feels so tightly wound the smallest thing makes him shiver, his skin hot and sensitive.

Grimaud kicks off his boots and pulls his clothing away, all damp now. "Finish undressing," he urges, content to watch, not yet hard again. It takes no effort for Athos to obey, removing his shirt and trousers and braies and standing before Grimaud with his hands at his sides, holding his eyes. He's still mostly hard and there is a bruise on his neck from Grimaud's mouth and another on his hip from Grimaud's hand.

Were Grimaud to entirely give into his nature, Athos would be a series of marks, scratches and bruises. As it is, Athos will have to wear a scarf on the next day, and hope d'Artagnan doesn't steal it. He will cherish the marks nonetheless, and watch them fade slowly.

Now, Grimaud takes his time looking at what he has done to Athos. His face is contemplative as he considers what to do next. "Lie down on your belly," he finally decides.

Holding Grimaud's eyes for a second before he complies, Athos sits down on the bed and rolls onto his belly, settling down as comfortably as he can. Keeping his hips still and not rutting against the cool sheets is a challenge in itself and he shifts, gritting his teeth against it.

Grimaud reaches for the small bottle of oil, smearing some on his fingers. He trails his knuckles down Athos's spine, then between his asscheeks to tease those slick fingers over his hole. "No sounds," he croons, in warning. "No rutting. Be still."

Athos bites on his lower lip and presses his forehead to the cool pillow, his shoulders locking as he bends his arms under the pillow. He shivers at the touch, not spreading his legs and pushing back into it as he wants to.

A slap stings Athos's ass. "be still," Grimaud reminds, watching him jerk but make no noise, going very still as Grimaud’s fingers probe at his still-red hole.The touch is gentle enough that it doesn't hurt, but he still feels tender, his body over-sensitive from what they did at the bath house. Athos takes it without complaint, focusing on keeping himself unmoving and quiet though he wants to moan and urge Grimaud to give him more already.

Rubbing first, Grimaud traces circles, teasing, keenly aware of Athos's every reaction. He wants to draw every bit out before he pushes inside entirely, up to his knuckle.

Athos has to stop biting his lower lip for fear he'd bruise it. By the time Grimaud's finger is inside him to the knuckle he's having trouble breathing quietly, fine tremors running down his back. His whole body is coiled with tension, his toes curled into the sheets; but he doesn't move, his cock dripping wetly on the sheet under him.

"Not yet," Grimaud whispers into Athos's ear. "Not yet. Be quiet, Musketeer. Be still for me." He thrusts that finger in and out, slowly and steadily.

This might be the most difficult thing Grimaud has ever demanded of him, Athos thinks. The teasing and delaying of his climax is one thing, but the order to stay still and quiet through it is making it almost unbearable. His breathing is ragged and it hitches every time Grimaud pushes his finger in just so, pleasure shooting through him. He's clearly shaking now, tendons tensing up as the muscles in his back draw tight with tension and need.

Grimaud watches it all, marvelling at how far he can push Athos, how much self-control the Musketeer has, how willing he is to be obedient. It makes his need grow again and he feels his body start to stir again, the desire that's ever-present around Athos coming back to life.

Pressing his forehead to the back of Athos's neck, Grimaud kneels over him, pushing his cock back inside, forcing himself to go slow again, milking as much pleasure as he can from the act. For both of them.

There is no way Athos is keeping still and silent through that and he can't help but gasp and groan, his hips lifting from the bed. His control finally snaps as pleasure ripples through him. It's good, so good despite the over-sensitivity inside him, and Athos grits his teeth against the urge to come, his fingers fisting in the bedsheets.

He only rocks his hips once before a hand presses to the back of his neck, fingers tightening - not tight enough to cut off circulation, but just tight enough to make it impossible not to feel the hold. Grimaud stops himself, just barely inside of Athos, his own resolve being sorely tested. "Be. Still."

It's such a primal way to hold someone down that Athos has to growl. For a few seconds it looks like he's going to fight it and disobey. His shoulders bunch and his back arches against Grimaud’s grip, his forehead pressing into the pillow. Then he folds to Grimaud's will and flattens himself down on the bed again, his legs spread and his arms under the pillow, sweat dampening his skin.

Grimaud's growl turns to a purr and he will give Athos the chance to come because of this. A reward for obedience.

But until then, he doesn't go slow anymore. He pushes, hips slapping against Athos's ass, boring into that tight hole, his back arched, fucking hard until he's done, until he spills in a climax so strong that it almost feels like his vision whites out. 

Athos can’t do much about it except hiss and stay still, bearing the onslaught without protest, his teeth gritted and his eyes squeezed shut. He can't quite tell whether it hurts or it feels good at this point, nerve endings completely over-stimulated. He lets out a ragged moan when he feels Grimaud come again, jerking on the bed. He's so very close again he can taste it and his whole body is trembling from the strain of keeping himself still, his control completely frayed.

It takes a moment for Grimaud to catch his breath, to pull out, but he finally taps Athos's hip and urges him onto his back, even as he still leans over him. He looks his Musketeer over, seeing the tension in his jaw, in his eyes, in the way his muscles twitch. He sees Athos’s desire and despair, the way his cock is painfully hard against his stomach. And he waits.

It only takes a second this time, Athos’s eyebrows furrowing before he understands what this is, his hands falling open on the sheets, a complete surrender. "Please," he says, his voice low and hoarse, his eyes beseeching. 

Grimaud nods, then bends down, taking Athos into his mouth and suckling. Athos has been very good and for that, he will get to come like this. 

After being left untouched for so long the feeling is incredible and Arthos cries out, his fingers going to Grimaud’s head. His back arches into it and he throws his head back, jerking harshly as he comes, shuddering with deep-seated relief. 

It lasts for so long Athos is exhausted when he falls back onto the sheets, his heart pounding. The whole ordeal was excruciatingly good and it leaves him drained, turning his head to press his cheek to Grimaud's temple. His body aches now, from being coiled tight for so long, and his ass stings when he moves, settling on the bed.

He can feel Grimaud lie against him and kiss his shoulder, breathing him in. Athos might be exhausted and aching but he will sleep blissfully and know peace, Grimaud is certain. This is what Grimaud gives him, an arm extended to hold him close. 

As he comes to his senses, Athos moves to press his lips to Grimaud' scruffy jaw in a silent display of affection. Even after all these weeks he's still not sure how Grimaud manages to do this to him, to make him weak and compliant, but the peace that comes from giving up control is glorious. His body slowly winds down and his mind quiets, the problems of the day forgotten. 

It won’t take long for him to fall asleep, his head on Grimaud's shoulder and his naked body growing warm and heavy against his side. Grimaud hums, pulling him closer. He needs to, for all that he gives Athos, Athos gives him just as much.

Is this love? Perhaps. He's not the one to ask, after all.


	17. Something Wicked This Way Comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a pause at the door when Athos finds it open, because no one usually goes into his office without his permission and Grimaud doesn't usually show during the day. He steps in and looks up, very nearly dropping the letter he was holding. Seeing Milady is like a punch to the gut and he stops dead in his tracks, making a small sound, surprised and almost pained.

After Feron's death, the politics of the city in complete upheaval, both in legal and illegal circles. Grimaud strives to work it all out to his advantage, treading lightly when possible, heavily when needed. It's a complicated time and the atmosphere in Paris is explosive, but between Athos working in plain sight and Grimaud working in the shadows, they manage to maintain relative peace. They meet each evening in Athos’s room to talk about it, and Grimaud almost always stays the night.

That’s when Milady de Winter chooses to return to Paris, carefully stepping into the once-familiar streets, taking in everything that has changed and everything that hasn’t. Something pulls her towards the Garrison, despite how she and Athos parted the last time. She is unfamiliar with the Musketeers she finds there, and learns that Athos and his damnable trio of friends are away for the time being. 

From there, it’s easy enough to proclaim herself the Captain’s wife and push her way into his office to wait for him. The temptation to search Athos’s office from top to bottom as she waits for him is too great to resist, and while all important documents and ledgers are filed away, she does find something that warms her deeply. A white glove, matching one she still owns and never wore again; the glove she’d left behind at the crossroads on that day she asked him to come with her to England. 

When she hears Athos coming, she turns in her chair to face him.

There is a pause at the door when Athos finds it open, because no one usually goes into his office without his permission and Grimaud doesn't usually show during the day. He steps in and looks up, very nearly dropping the letter he was holding. Seeing Anne is like a punch to the gut and he stops dead in his tracks, making a small sound, surprised and almost pained.

Anne rises, her lost glove in hand. "I thought you'd not come. But you had come." On her face is an expression of naked hope, of longing even. She hasn't been a nun whilst away, but that doesn't change how she feels about Athos. The tie that binds them, after all, is a strong one.

Athos stands at the door, squaring his shoulders stiffly as he watches her. She is still the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. Something in him yearns for her, and always will. He notices the glove and his jaw sets, giving her a small nod. "I did," he confirms quietly, his eyes intent. "But you were gone. And then I was sent to war."

Yes, Anne heard of the war. Silly way to die, in her view. She comes closer, eyes searching his face. Something in him seems eased, seems more relaxed, more confident even. She’s not sure what to attribute it to. "I'm here, now."

"Why did you come back?" Athos asks, his voice low. 

The words sting, as irrational as that may be. Milady blinks at the question. "If you came for me, we can still start again, Athos."

Athos considers her for a few long seconds and then shakes his head, just once. "It's too late," he says, his jaw setting. "Four years ago, perhaps. But not now. Too much has changed." Athos has changed. He has changed since he last saw her, freed from the burden of his past and buoyed by Grimaud's love.

"Are you rejecting me?" she asks, more than a little disbelieving. " _ Athos _ ." Their toes are nearly touching now as she looks up at him. "What we have can't be denied. Even after four years."

She is not wrong, in the sense that he cannot deny the pull he feels towards her, just as strong as it was four years ago. Were it not for Grimaud, he might be foolish enough to love her again, and risk having his heart broken anew.

He does not back away but his eyes harden minutely, his face closing. "What do you want, Anne?" he asks, quiet but determined.

As only she can, she grows haughty, hard and distant, a means of protecting herself. "I want to be with my husband."

Athos arches an eyebrow at her. "Which one?" he inquires, his tone flat. It's a low blow but he hasn't forgotten how much she used jealousy against him, last time.

Eyes narrowing further, Anne lifts and lets fall a beautiful, smooth shoulder. "The only one who matters." She reaches up, catching a fastening of Athos's doublet. 

She has no reason to think about it, but there is someone making their way toward Athos's office, staying in the shadows.

"Don't do this," Athos says quietly, his eyebrows furrowing. He doesn't step away, still, drawn to her as he always has been. He catches her wrist in his hand and gently pulls it away from his doublet, watching her down his nose. "Were you not happier, without me?" he asks, his eyes sad but determined.

Happiness. What an abstract, antiquated concept. She turns her nose up at the question, pulling her wrist free. "Have you been?" she asks.

Athos won't lie. He's blamed her enough for deceiving him once, he won’t do the same himself when convenient. "Not for a long time, no. But I am now," he answers. He is, as odd as it may seem. With Grimaud.

The answer makes her frown deeply. It seems impossible for him to be happy without her. "And what has changed?" she asks.

Outside, Grimaud is nearly on them, drawing out his knife to pick Athos's lock.

There is no reason for Athos to disguise the truth, though he feels it will be painful for Anne. "I have met another," he says calmly, considering her. And though he will always love her, now he loves another more.

What? Anne has heard nothing of this from anyone, not even from the young cadet she bullied into letting her in. His answer is not so much painful as it is ridiculous. She scoffs, watching his face. "Is she as beautiful as I am?" she asks, leaning in, eyes flicking between his eyes and his mouth. 

Snorting, Athos does not answer. Beauty doesn't truly matter, to him. He does find Grimaud handsome, and the scars and scowl on his face only contribute to the attraction.

He’s about to answer when Anne leans up and kisses him, a desperate bid to remind him who he belongs to. The kiss takes Athos by surprise and for a second, he can't help but kiss back, his hands coming to rest on Anne's shoulders. 

It is in that moment that Grimaud walks in, his hood still shrouding part of his face. He stops cold, glaring, his expression becoming more icy the longer he looks. Silently, he steps back out. It feels as if he has been hit in the chest. He will make his escape.

Athos does not see Grimaud, his eyes half shut as the kiss brings back memories of a simpler time, before he catches himself and gently moves away. He shakes his head slowly, his eyes soulful.

Eyebrows furrowed, the look in her eyes yearning, Anne watches him cooly. It’s only a matter of time, she thinks. It can't be that complicated; it never is. Their gravitational pull shall bring them back together.

For the moment, though, she'll take what she can get. "I don't know who was at the door," she says breezily as she makes her way there, "but they didn't seem to appreciate what they saw." Their loss, her smirk says. "I'll be in the city for a while, if you want to find me."

Athos looks towards the empty doorway when she mentions someone was at the door, his eyebrows arching. He didn't hear anything, and he can't think of anyone who would just burst in. Or rather, well. He can think of only one person.

"Try not to get into trouble, this time," he says, a little sharply because he's thinking about what Grimaud saw, and how much it must have hurt. He won't seek her out, not unless he has good reason to.

Trouble? What can she say? Milady rarely finds trouble, but it seems to gravitate toward her. With one last teasing look, she, too, slips out the door, sashaying down the stairs in full view of Aramis and the others, who only exchange worried glances.

For Grimaud's part, he is riding out of the city, toward that small cottage in the deserted village. He won't even light a fire. He will sit in the dark, his back against the wall and try to decide if he feels anger, hurt or sadness. He will try to turn all these confusing feelings into anger, and he will fail, his hands fisting and unfisting.

Sitting in his office, Athos broods over Anne's return and Grimaud's hasty exit. He has dinner with the other Musketeers and dodge their questions about Milady, obviously thoughtful. 

The return of Milady de Winter, even if she did save Aramis from prison, doesn't bode well. On this, everyone agrees. Only Aramis thinks of the man that he'd stitched up. He won't bring it up.

It’s evening when Athos makes for his rooms, and he waits for Grimaud until late in the night, sighing when he does not show. He gets up and puts his doublet and weapon belt back on, striding to the stables and saddling his horse again, riding out to Grimaud’s derelict cottage. 

There is no moon that night, and he rides out in the dark. He takes a torch with him but the path is treacherous and it takes him a while to reach Grimaud's abandoned village, his eyebrows furrowing when he sees no fire in his cottage.

Inside, Grimaud is lying down on his narrow bed, his whole body tense with misery, his chest aching. He shouldn't have cared, clearly. The woman isn't like Feron; what reason could Athos possibly have for kissing her? It is as it always has been: use Grimaud until he is no longer necessary, clearly.

He lifts his head when he hears a horse trot closer, his chest tightening further. So, this is it, isn’t it? Athos is honorable enough to come to face Grimaud when he tells him that whatever it is that exists between them is now over.

Grimaud doesn't wish to face it. He wishes he didn't care, but he does, and far too much.

When Athos knocks he is standing behind the door, snarling. "Go away, Musketeer," he growls through the door. "Go back to your life." The one that doesn't involve Grimaud.

"I won't," Athos says, firmly. He doesn't like speaking to a closed door and he wishes he could see Grimaud's face, but that doesn't deter him in the slightest. His torch has burnt out so it's very dark now, and Athos has to lean against the door to find his bearings. "This is my life," he says, quietly. This, with Grimaud.

"Is it?!" That gets Grimaud flinging the door open, sending Athos stumbling forward and catching himself on the door-frame, looking for Grimaud's eyes in the murk.

“Is that why you were kissing the woman, then?” Grimaud continues, his tone harsh. “Because this is your life? You know what this place is,  _ Musketeer _ . It is a hovel. How can you choose this over what you could have, Comte? Eh?" The words come out hissed, hurt masked in bitterness.

"And yet I have," Athos points out, his tone intent. Here he is, in front of Grimaud's hovel, rather than in Paris with his wife. He's not angry but he's concerned, concerned Grimaud won't forgive him for this. "The woman was my wife, Lucien," he explains, quietly.

It is as if lightning runs through Grimaud's body at that mention.

The infamous wife.

He stares for a long time. "Do you care for her, still?" he asks, ashamed of how choked and quiet his voice sounds.

"I'll always care for her," Athos tells him again, and he hates himself for it, in that moment, because he knows the words will hurt Grimaud. "But I shan't leave with her." He doesn't reach out though he wants to, fearing it would not be welcomed. "She asked. I said no."

Why wouldn’t Athos leave with her? Call Grimaud cynical. He scowls. "She is your wife, Musketeer." 

Not Athos, but  _ Musketeer _ , not as a term of endearment, but a way to distance himself.

He even goes so far as to cross his arms over his chest. "Isn't that what honorable men like you want? Even if she is a thief and a murderer?" After all, Grimaud himself is a thief and a murderer.

"She has not been my wife in a long time, now," Athos corrects, firmly. "She has been a thief, an assassin, Richelieu's ally, the King's mistress..." he trails off, remembering how much that last one had stung.

He lifts his chin to answer Grimaud's crossed arms, standing his ground. "Perhaps I don't want to be honorable in this, then," he states, his eyes intent. "Perhaps I haven't been in a long time." Starting this affair with Grimaud was hardly dutiful, after all.

Is that supposed to be reassuring, Grimaud wonders, to hear the Captain dismiss his honour? He’s all but sneering, bolstering the defense of his hurt behind disdain. "You don't expect me to believe that you are - " Grimaud lacks words at this point, grateful for the dark to hide the pain that flashes in his eyes.

"That I am what?" Athos challenges. He doesn't mean to be reassuring, he means to be truthful. Grimaud asked about his honour, he answered. If being with Grimaud compromises his honour, then he does not care. 

He arches his eyebrows, daring Grimaud to say it. 

All Grimaud's life, he has been taught that exposing oneself only leads to pain. It is better to hide, to fight, to kill, than to be vulnerable. Athos is asking more of Grimaud than anyone ever has and part of him hates the Musketeer for that.

"That you are choosing deviance over the views of the church, trading one murderer for another?" Grimaud grits out, the words steely. "That you would choose an act that could get you hanged over your precious honor, Captain of the Musketeers?"

It's not the greatest definition of love Athos has ever heard and yet it makes him smile. "I already have," he says, calmly. When he first loved Grimaud and when he told Anne he would not go with her. "Our marriage exists only by name," he adds. "I will risk hanging. It would not be the first time." He arches an eyebrow. "And my honour does not reside in whom I choose to love."

There's that word again: Love. It makes Grimaud's stomach turn over heavily, it makes his head feel strange. 

"Why should I believe you won't betray me?" he asks, his voice low, not dangerously so, but perhaps more tired, more resigned to being hurt eventually. He can't seem to help it, after all. Athos has made him weak.

"Tell me," Athos says, intently. He knows Grimaud values actions over words, so this is what be will offer. "Ask of me what you will, and I will do it." Athos does not know how to prove himself to Grimaud, but he will do what he can. He trusts Grimaud enough to believe he won’t ask anything evil of him.

There's that reckless courage again, Grimaud thinks. He could ask Atho to do something entirely mad and what, then? Would Athos refuse, proving Grimaud right? Would he do it, potentially humiliating himself? And for what? It's enough to make a man's head hurt.

But when push comes to shove, Grimaud doesn't want to hurt Athos. Not like this, anyway. He cares too much, wants him too much; it's his weakness. 

The moment stretches on and on as Athos waits for his answer, the silence growing heavy.

Finally, a thought occurs to Grimaud and he pulls from around his neck a leather strap, from which hangs a small stone, polished smooth and warm from being next to his skin. He steps close to Athos, tossing the Musketeer's hat aside to put the necklace around his neck, tightening it just a bit. He slips the stone inside of Athos's doublet. "If you betray me," he whispers, "cast this aside and never return to me."

Athos covers Grimaud's hands with his own and steps closer, holding his eyes. "I will wear it always," he says, quietly.

Grimaud fists his hand in Athos's doublet and gives him a shake, letting some of that hurt out in mild violence, even as he leans forward, letting their foreheads rest together. "What have you done to me?" he asks in a whisper.

Athos steps closer and leans in as well, closing his eyes. The line of his shoulders relaxes as he lets relief wash over him. He doesn't know how close he came to truly losing Grimaud, but he isn't eager to repeat the experience.

"I apologize for hurting you," he says, a little formally. He won't apologize for loving Grimaud, though. "For making you doubt me."

"You kissed her," Grimaud said and he despises how weak he sounds at acknowledging that, but he hated how that made him feel.

"She kissed me," Athos corrects, though he does take responsibility for kissing back. "For a second, it felt like I was young and carefree again," he says, quietly. "But the past is dead." He cups Grimaud's cheek carefully.

"Young and carefree," Grimaud echoes. What is that like? He has never known. "Are you now old, then, and weighed by heavy burdens?"

"I was," Athos admits, and his lets his lips curve up a little at the corner. "Less so now that I have you." 

"Is she staying in Paris?" Grimaud ask, eyebrows furrowed.

"Don't go after her," Athos warns, and it means yes. "Nothing good will come out of that." He isn't sure how Anne would react, if she found out who he chose over her. He lets go of Grimaud, taking a step back. "Do you want me to go back to the Garrison?" he asks, carefully. He will if Grimaud asks, though he would rather stay.

"It's too late for you to ride back," Grimaud tells him and he pulls Athos inside the hovel, beginning to undo the fastenings of his doublet. Yes, it's too dark and too late to ride back, and Grimaud isn't going to let him go.

Removing his doublet, Athos reaches out to wrap his arms around Grimaud's waist, carefully leaning in for a kiss. It's like home. In the dark when they are entirely alone, and Grimaud closes his eyes as he kisses back, his hands slipping under Athos's shirt to touch warm, bare skin. He's tired, worn out by emotions he's not used to experiencing and something like relief. He licks against Athos's tongue almost gently.

It feels almost unusual for them to be so careful with each other, but Athos likes it. He slips his fingers through Grimaud's hair as he kisses back, stepping closer. He's tired too and he wants to curl in Grimaud's too small bed and hold him.

That's where they end up when they are stripped down to their braies. Grimaud loops a leg over Athos's hip and presses his face to his neck, breathing him in.

Grimaud's stone rests against Athos's collarbone and he slowly strokes his fingers through Grimaud's hair, holding him close. "I wish I could truly prove to you that I won't leave," Athos whispers against Grimaud's temple.

With his eyes closed, Grimaud shakes his head. "You are mine until you aren't," he says simply. And if Athos chooses not to be, Grimaud thinks he might die. Pathetic.

"I am yours now," Athos confirms, stroking down Grimaud's back and settling against him. The hovel is cold and dark around them but it is warm in Grimaud's bed, and Athos does not want to be anywhere else.


	18. Hide Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos follows, turning his head to look at Grimaud, his eyes dark and fond. "That taught you absolutely no lesson about coming into the Garrison and speaking ill of the Musketeers, did it?" he inquires wryly, his voice still low.
> 
> The question makes Grimaud smile, or as close as he gets to it and he shakes his head, bushy chin against Athos's shoulder. "I've learned nothing, Musketeer."

When the sun starts to peer through the windows, Grimaud blinks awake. They are still at Grimaud's small hovel in the abandoned village, and Athos is asleep next to him. Grimaud doesn't move, studying his lover when he is entirely relaxed. Athos looks younger in his sleep, peaceful, the lines on his face less deep.

After a while Athos stirs slowly, a slight furrow appearing between his eyebrows. He opens his eyes and focuses on Grimaud's chin, blinking a few times before he seems to remember where he is and what happened. 

He looks up and meets Grimaud's eyes, smiling at finding him awake. The look on his face is completely open in his first moments of wakefulness, his eyes crinkling at the corners fondly. It takes Grimaud's breath away, making his chest tight. He runs his thumb along Athos's cheek. "You're going to be late," he notes, though he is clearly not in a hurry to let Athos go.

Athos hums, his eyes falling half-shut at the gentle caress. "I'm sure the Garrison can manage for a few hours more," he points out, amused at the smug look on Grimaud’s face. It seems Lucien managed to make him slack off on his Captain duties after all.

"Will they send a search party?" Grimaud asks, slipping his hand down Athos's body, chest to belly and lower.

"Not unless I went missing for the whole morning, I think." Athos leans into the touch, stroking his thumb over Grimaud's lips and leaning in for a kiss. "And they wouldn't find me here."

"I would fight them off," Grimaud murmurs, reaching down to grip Athos's cock, waiting for it to harden in his hand.

"All of the Garrison?" Athos teases, grinning. "I'd like to see that."

"You fight clean," Grimaud reminds him. Grimaud doesn't and he'd like to think it gives him an advantage on the Musketeers. He starts to stroke, slow, leaning back to look Athos in the eye.

"Not all of us do," Athos answers pointedly. He shivers and hums, moving to roll on top of Grimaud and kiss him again. "Perhaps you should teach me." 

"Perhaps I should," Grimaud says, chin canted so that he peers down his nose between kisses, his hands running across Athos's back. "And you could teach the Musketeers." That idea amuses him greatly; it shows in his eyes.

"Would you like that?" Athos asks, leaning up to look at Grimaud, slowly grinning back. "To see Musketeers fight as dirty as you do?" He rolls their hips together, making a low noise of pleasure at the feeling.

"It would lessen my advantage," Grimaud acknowledges, which is a no in its own way. His body moves in turn, hands bracketing Athos's hips so he can push up. 

"Musketeers aren't your enemies anymore," Athos points out, and Grimaud wisely chooses not to comment on that. 

"Perhaps some of them couldn't do it," he says instead. 

"I think most of them  _ wouldn't _ do it," Athos corrects, still grinning.

"Their loss," Grimaud decides easily enough, giving Athos's ass a squeeze. "And you? Would you fight dirty, then?" he asks, fingers tracing the crease, slipping down between.

Athos makes a small noise, his hips rocking harder against Grimaud's. "I would, to protect those I care for." 

Grimaud hardly needs protecting but for some reason the sentiment warms him. "Do you want me, Musketeer?" he asks, his voice low and rough with desire.

"I always want you," Athos answers, his eyes dark and warm. He's bold enough to take Grimaud's hand in his and bring it to his mouth, taking two fingers in.

Entirely distracted by Athos's debauchery, Grimaud lets Athos wet his fingers then uses them to press inside, eyes never leaving his face. 

Like this, it’s easy to shift until Athos’s thighs are spread wider and he’s straddling Grimaud's hips, slipping his fingers through his hair to hold on. Biting kisses back, Grimaud wastes no time, pumping those fingers before he's urging Athos more over him, over his erection. It throbs, already nearly aching.

Athos goes when he is urged, using spit to ease the way a little as he slowly works himself down on Grimaud's cock. The stretch of it burns but it doesn't truly hurt, making him hiss and lean down to kiss him again.

By the time his hips are pinning Grimaud's to the bed, his head is back and his back is arched, his chest rising and falling quickly. Grimaud's stone rests between his collarbones, tapping there gently as he slowly starts rolling his hips.

Grimaud traces his fingers from Athos's collarbones down, covering the necklace briefly, and even Athos's heart. He's beautiful like this, but Grimaud needs a measure of control. When his hands land on Athos's hips, he holds him still, digging his heels into the bed and pushing up, hard.

Athos groans, louder than he would normally dare, as there is no one to hear them here. It hurts and it feels so, so good at the same time, and he can't help but try to move his hips in Grimaud's grip, try to get more of that feeling.   


Teeth gritted, Grimaud does that again, setting a punishing rhythm. His eyes never leave Athos's face; he's so enrapt that he isn't even aware how his expression matches Athos's as he gets lost in this. Athos doesn't look away, watching Grimaud's face as his own cheeks flush and his eyes grow more and more hooded as his pleasure builds. It's rough like this, with too much friction and nothing at all to separate them, their bodies pressed together.

Eventually, Grimaud wraps his hand around Athos's cock and when he feels Athos get too close, he squeezes again, tight enough to rein him in.

It makes Athos gasp and shudder, his fingers digging in Grimaud’s shoulders. Grimaud has taken to doing this to him quite often. Both because he enjoys inflicting the sweet torture of it on Athos, and as a form of control, Athos thinks. What better way to insure that Athos will be thinking of him all day, after all. Athos would tell him that he thinks of Lucien anyway, but he quite enjoys this and is fully willing to let Grimaud control his pleasure. 

"Tonight," Grimaud promises, breathless and flushed as he works his way to climax. He'll let Athos come tonight, after a long, long bout of lovemaking, slick with oil, then. Athos groans again, his hips rolling faster though he knows what Grimaud is doing now, and what an awful tease it will be. He jerks as he feels Grimaud come, biting at his mouth.

"You're a cruel man, Lucien Grimaud," Athos says against Grimaud's lips, shuddering over and over again as he feels himself teeter on the sharp edge of pleasure.

"Never forget, Musketeer, how good I can make you feel," Grimaud says as a kind of promise, his eyes dark even as he’s catching his breath. Athos can feel the heat of the words all the way down to his bones. "You'd better," he warns, but there is no anger lacing the words, just sheer desire. 

Grimaud doesn’t gratify that with an answer. He gives Athos's ass a slap and a squeeze. "Go back to being a captain and feel me with you all day."

Giving Grimaud one last, heated kiss before he sits up, Athos winces a little. Riding back to the Garrison with a sore ass and a hard on is not going to be pleasant. He knows he doesn't have to - he could tell Grimaud he doesn't want to play this game this time - but he'll do it nonetheless, and carry this need with him all day.

He makes it back to the Garrison just as the other Musketeers are starting to worry about his absence, and reassures them. Performing his duties is hard at first as he is quite distracted, but by noon his focus has returned, despite the twinges of pain he feels when he moves and the gnawing hunger in the cradle of his hips.

He stays vigilant, as he knows it’s very possible Anne and Grimaud are looking for each other at this very moment. Anne will not drop the matter so easily, he knows, and will try to find out about his lover; and he suspects Grimaud, despite Athos's warning words, will not be willing to let this go unanswered either.

Which means Paris now has two assassins in its midst, searching.

He doesn’t hear anything that day still, and carries on as usual, making sure not to skirt his duties. He eludes his friends's questions about where he was all night and lets them joke and assume what they will. 

It's a tiring afternoon as they investigate a murder in a refugee camp and narrowly avoid provoking a riot and after dinner, he’s relieved to call it a day and return to his rooms. He's taken off his pauldron, doublet and belts when he hears Grimaud slip into his room, Lucien coming up behind him, arms around his waist, hands splayed possessively over his chest and belly. 

"The refugees hardly seemed grateful," Grimaud tells him in greeting. "You should have driven them all out." He slides his hand down to Athos's belt.

Athos isn't surprised anymore by how Grimaud always seems to know about every little thing going on in the city, even the most secret, covert affairs. He leans back against the warmth of Grimaud's chest, humming. "They have committed no crimes. Life has not been kind to them. They were merely suspicious of our motives.”

"Do they not know that the Musketeers care about all the people, even the lowest of the low?" Grimaud asks, his tone sardonic. It seems that that is true, even if he doesn't quite understand the reason for that care.

Turning around in Grimaud's arms, Athos furrows his eyebrows at him. "You come to the Garrison and give that lip to the Captain, now?" he retorts, some playfulness underlying the words.

"I do," Grimaud says, his chin up despite the inch or two he lacks in height. He has Athos's trousers unbuttoned now and slips his hand inside. "And what will the Captain of the Musketeers do about it?"

"Demand reparation for that slight," Athos says meaningfully, the corners of his lips curving up. His lips part when Grimaud touches him and he steps closer, slipping his fingers through Grimaud's hair to kiss him.

Kissing open-eyed and open-mouthed, Grimaud urges him back to the bed, making Athos smile. That's much better reparation than a duel, in his opinion.

They undress slowly, only breaking the kiss when necessary, their pace is unhurried. Grimaud seems to want to take his time tonight, and Athos is willing to indulge him. He holds Lucien close and presses kisses to his chest and belly when he bares them, humming.

"Did you think of me all day, Musketeer?" Grimaud inquires, cradling Athos's head to urge him close when he's naked. Athos presses his scruffy cheek to Grimaud's lower belly, nuzzling his cock lightly. He strokes his hands down the back of Grimaud's thighs, looking up to him.

"Yes," he says, quietly, and smiles when Lucien can’t quite help the self-satisfied look on his face. 

“Good,” Grimaud tells him, and he pushes Athos to lie back, getting the slick from where he knows Athos keeps it. He smears it on his fingers reaches between Athos's legs, beginning slowly, to open him up. It’s easy, Athos welcoming his touch even though he’s still sore from what they did in the morning. 

Grimaud is very gentle this time, nudging Athos's chin to the side so he can trail kisses along his neck, spreading his fingers inside him and adding more oil. Grimaud's gentleness seems to undo Athos just as efficiently as his roughness did in the morning, and soon he's squirming on the bed, trying to keep quiet as he tugs on Grimaud's hair and arches his back.

"Patience," Grimaud croons into Athos's ear. "Be good. Be quiet. I won't let you suffer tonight,” he promises, grinning a little when Athos nips on his lower lip in response. Soon enough he’s rolling over Athos, nestling between his legs and pressing in. The slide inside is so easy, so smooth that he groans against Athos's mouth.

They shudder together for a few seconds, keeping still as Athos gets used to the feeling, a twinge that seems to be both pain and pleasure. Then he wraps one leg around Grimaud’s hip to pull him closer and kisses him heatedly, and that’s the only encouragement Grimaud needs to start moving. 

Eyelids heavy with pleasure, Grimaud makes sure to move as slowly and as deliberately as he can, which is  _ quite _ slow and quite deliberate, drawing this out. It doesn't take much for his breathing to grow labored, but it is worth it to watch Athos gasp and arch his back to provide the perfect angle, his eyes falling shut. 

It's so good like this, pleasure rippling through him every time Grimaud pushes in, making him throw his head back and pant quietly. The slow pace is driving him crazy but he does not protest, digging his fingers in Gimaud's shoulders and rutting up to press his cock against his stomach.

When the tension and the need to come become unbearable, Grimaud gets his hand between them, fingers wrapped around Athos's cock, stroking him as they move together. He presses his face into Athos's shoulder, letting out a low, groaned breath as he feels his pleasure hit him.

Athos comes with his head thrown back and his heels pressing into the small of Grimaud's back, his whole body going tight and tense. He hisses and pants through it, holding Grimaud tight. The feeling is intense and seems to unwind him completely, all the tension he has held since morning slowly disappearing.

Just as Grimaud promised. He shudders again as he feels Athos clench around him but doesn’t move away yet, staying buried as deep as he can, pressing kisses against Athos's neck, his chin and, finally, his mouth.

Keeping his eyes closed, Athos tilts his head to kiss back. His legs slowly slip down onto the bed but he keeps his arms around Grimaud, stroking his fingers through his hair and down his back. His heart is still beating too fast but he feels warm and calm now, safe in Grimaud's arms.

When he must slip free Grimaud does, shifting to lie pressed to Athos's side, a hand splayed over his heart. 

Athos follows, turning his head to look at Grimaud, his eyes dark and fond. "That taught you absolutely no lesson about coming into the Garrison and speaking ill of the Musketeers, did it?" he inquires wryly, his voice still low.

The question makes Grimaud smile, or as close as he gets to it and he shakes his head, bushy chin against Athos's shoulder. "I've learned nothing, Musketeer."

It is lovely, Athos thinks, Grimaud's small, almost-smile. "I shall have to try harder next time," he confirms, stroking his hand up Grimaud's ribs and leaning him to give him a small kiss.

Any lesson of such a kind will go unlearned, at least on the surface. But for now, Grimaud kisses back. "Do you have food?" he asks, not having eaten for the day.

Athos hums, reluctant to get out of bed but unwilling to let Grimaud go hungry. He sits up, his nose scrunching up a little at the way it feels, and slips his shirt over his head, heading for his small pantry. There is food there and he piles it on a tray, along with a bottle of wine. 

Grimaud rolls on the bed and sits up against the headboard, unabashedly watching his lover move. Even now, just sated, he feels a stirring of want and he gives in to it, reaching for Athos as he returns. It makes Athos smile, leaning into the gentle touch of Grimaud’s rough palms and tilting his face down to kiss him, careful not to spill anything.

Then they can share the food, Athos pouring them two glasses of red wine. "What did you do today, apart from spying on us at the refugee camp?" he inquires, his tone easy. He sits close to Grimaud, their legs touching.

With a small shrug, Grimaud shakes his head. "When there is an absence of power, there is a rush to fill it," he notes, referring to Feron's death. "Marcheaux is getting more difficult to control. He drinks. Heavily."

Athos eats but his eyes stay on Grimaud. He takes a sip from his wine to wash down the bread. "This will not end well," he states, his eyebrows furrowing. d'Artagnan has been talking of killing Marcheaux, for the way he treated him and Constance.

"I can take care of it," Grimaud says, watching Athos for that tacit permission. "Or I can get him where you want him to be at a particular time."

"I'll ask the others," Athos answers, an unspoken plea for more time. It's not that he feels pity for Marcheaux; the man has done nothing to earn it, but he fears what his death might precipitate. "And what of the Red Guard, once he's gone?"

"They'll scatter like rats," Grimaud says grimly, knowing this. Without a leader, without a focus, they'll do nothing and be nothing but petty criminals. He'll give Athos more time. But if Marchaux does something foolish as he no doubt will, then Grimaud will act.

Sighing, Athos finishes his glass. They can't kill them all, and they have no reason to jail them all. And yet, so few of them are redeemable. He knows Grimaud won't hesitate to act if necessary, and he is grateful for it. "Be careful," he says, quietly, putting his hand on Grimaud's knee. He knows Grimaud’s current situation is tricky, with Paris' underbelly plummeting into chaos.

Careful - the idea makes Grimaud smirk. Paris is hardly safer than it was when Feron was alive, proving that to kill the beast takes more than lopping off one of its heads.

He kisses Athos again, lingering there. "Did your wife visit you today?" he asks in a whisper, lip to lip.

“She did not," Athos answers, truthfully. "I told her not to come back." He knows she will, still, at least once, to try and persuade him. Another lingering kiss and Grimaud's eyes are slits, fingers finding the necklace that he gave Athos.

Athos covers Grimaud's hand with his own over the small stone, taking his time to kiss him, slow and deep. He leans their foreheads together as they settle in bed, thinking that he would let Grimaud tell Anne that he is his, if he didn't dread what she would do with the information. He's well aware that this could ruin him, and he knows Anne can be cruel, in her despair.

As it is, he is willing to trust that they will overcome this together, as they have many other hurdles before. 

  
  
  
  



	19. Stand Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Come see!" Grantaire pulls Athos down the streets to a small inn, dreadfully quiet because everyone inside has fled. Inside is Athos’s worst nightmare: Milady and Grimaud staring each other down, knives drawn. 

It is just after the noonday bell that Grantaire comes speeding into the Garrison, barrelling through the courtyard and up the stairs. Athos doesn’t need him to say anything to know that means trouble. 

"Come quickly!" the boy says, yanking Athos's hand, and the look on his face sends an icy shudder down Athos's back. Last time he was fetched with such urgency, he'd found Grimaud bleeding to death in an alley. He drops what he is doing and follows hurriedly, not even taking the time to put his hat back on. 

"Athos?" Aramis asks, standing as he sees his friend start to rush off, wondering whether he should follow. 

"What's happened?" Athos asks, worry turning his stomach.

"Come see!" Grantaire pulls Athos down the streets to a small inn, dreadfully quiet because everyone inside has fled. Inside is Athos’s worst nightmare: Milady and Grimaud staring each other down, knives drawn. 

Athos squeezes Grantaire's hand and sends him away, taking a slow breath and stepping inside, his hand on his musket. "I told you not to go looking," he states coolly, and oddly enough, it applies to both of them.

Grimaud smirks and so does Milady, though they don't look away from each other. "This ... street rat seems to know you," she tells Athos, sneering because Grimaud's lack of class is obvious.

The insult makes Grimaud laugh, though there's no mirth here. He is used to being disrespected, after all. "Says the one who isn't far from the gutter herself," he returns, archly.

Outside, Grantaire zips past Aramis who has indeed followed and is now crouching by the door with his musket drawn, listening to see if Athos needs his help. 

There are a few seconds of tense silence and then Athos sighs and draws his musket, stepping between them. He knows they both trust he won’t shoot either of them unless he absolutely needs to, but this feels like a situation he should have his musket at the ready for. 

"Don't call him that," he admonishes, giving Milady a flat look. Then he looks over to Grimaud disapprovingly, though his eyes are much less cool. "What do you want?" he asks Anne, careful but pointed. 

"I came back to be with you," Milady tells him, eyes moving between Athos and this other man. She knows Athos is loyal to his friends, but this seems ... extreme?

"I told you already..." Athos starts, but Grimaud is faster. "After four years," he drawls, "you have decided you want to be his wife again. Is that how you are seeing things? What gives you that right?" He takes a step forward, raising his knife. "You are  _ nothing _ to him. A memory. Mist."

Biting down a wince, Athos puts his hand out towards Grimaud’s chest, keeping him at a distance. His harsh words are not untrue, but he doesn’t want this to devolve into violence if it can be helped. "Don't," he says, meeting Grimaud's eyes and not looking away.

Looking between the two of them, something starts to crystallize for Anne, a seemingly unthinkable concept. "Who is this thing to you? Athos?" she asks, waiting for him to answer, her grip on her own dagger tightening.

Athos turns to face her, his hand still fisted in Grimaud's pauldron to keep him where he is. He glares at what she calls Grimaud now, tilting his chin up. He knows she's already begun to suspect and does not answer, aware that his silence will be just as much of a reply as anything else he could say.

"... Athos?" she asks, something in her dying, something else hardening. "You aren't a deviant. You aren't a pervert."

Grimaud sneers. So much for what others think. He's used to being mocked.

Outside, Aramis blinks. Is that what this is all about?

Athos stands his ground, refusing to feel shame. "If that is what you wish to call me for whom I choose to love, then I am," he answers steadily. His grip tightens on Grimaud's pauldron, both to keep him still and for reassurance.

With a heavy realization, Aramis stares at the far wall. He never would have expected this.

"I'll show you what a deviant can do," Grimaud hisses, aching to put a knife into her gut. He wraps his free hand around Athos's wrist, not to pull him away, interestingly enough, but for that very reassurance.

"Lucien," Athos says, sharply, but he keeps his eyes on Anne, aware that she is the true danger for them all right now. The reassurance of Grimaud's fingers around his wrist is welcome and Athos's grip tightens a little more, holding them both steady. He can tell that his use of his first name calms Grimaud just that bit, though he is tense, well aware of the danger. 

"One word to the King," Milady says, drawing herself up tall and disdainful, "and you two would be hanged." Her face composes itself back into a sneer. "Athos." And this man, this  _ Lucien _ .

Taking the threat in stride, Athos looks on impassively. "If I let go of him," he says, calm but deadly. "You won't make it to the King."

Grimaud just bares his teeth, which makes Milady roll her eyes. "You couldn't kill me and you won't let your deviant kill me either."

"Don't be so sure," Grimaud vows. His thumb traces along Athos's pulse point. They both know that he won't do anything now, but this is a problem, and a big one.

"I won't stand there and watch as you send him to the gallows," Athos answers coolly. And Athos himself too, but that's the least of his concerns at the moment. He is no murderer, but Anne knows already to which lengths he is prepared to go to protect those he cares for.

And indeed, something in the way Athos says that makes Anne rear back, just a little. His sincerity, perhaps. His conviction.

"You really have chosen  _ this _ ?" she asks, and this time, it's less disdainful and more disbelieving.

" _ Him _ ," Athos corrects, immediately. "I have chosen him." His voice is devoid of warmth but he speaks the truth, his jaw set and his chin tilted in stubborn determination.

Were one looking closely, they would see a slight widening of Grimaud's eyes. He has never experienced anything like this before, someone so openly and deliberately standing up for him. 

"Athos." Milady comes as close as she does to beseeching.

Athos shakes his head, his eyes sadder now, less angry. "You should go," he says, quietly. "Pick a country and stick to it, this time." His mouth curves up into a mirthless smile. "No matter the food, or the weather."

"We could have had something," Anne whispers.

"We  _ had _ something," Athos says, his tone gentle. "We had something and it was good," he adds, utterly honest. But now that thing has died and there is no rekindling it.

"Go," Grimaud says, stepping close enough that his chest rests against Athos's bicep. "Now. And don't return."

Anne lifts her chin at his audacity before she looks to Athos. "If I leave, you won't see me ever again. And this time, I mean it."

"I know," Athos says, quietly. His hand rests on Grimaud's chest lightly, only for support now. "Take care of yourself, Anne," he adds, his eyes honest. "I hope you find what you want."

How is it possible to leave with any kind of dignity? Anne draws herself up, her shoulders back. She will have that knowledge and she will take it with her. It might warm her on a cold night when she is feeling particularly alone; she could take Athos down. She probably won't, though.

Probably.

She walks out, past Aramis who has flattened himself against the inn wall, and down the street, looking every inch the lady.

Inside, Grimaud pulls Athos close, his arm tight around his waist. His heart is still beating hard, he still holds the knife tightly, only relaxing a little when Athos props his chin on his shoulder, hiding his face in Lucien’s neck. Grimaud smells of leather and metal and it's oddly comforting. 

"Thank you," Athos says quietly, his lips brushing against Grimaud's scruffy cheek, his arm wrapping around his shoulders.

With his fingers tangled in Athos's hair, Grimaud shakes his head. "She can get us killed," he points out. 

"She won't," Athos says, and he's reasonably sure of it. Milady's influence has dwindled while she was away, and he doesn't think she would get out of her way to harm them, now that there is nothing for her to gain from it.

"I'm sorry for what she said about you," Athos adds, cupping Grimaud's cheek.

"She said nothing that hasn't been said before," Grimaud notes, with a soft huff. 

"That does not make it true," Athos points out, leaning away so he can look at Grimaud's face. "Nor does it make it fair for you to hear it again." To Athos, Grimaud is none of these things. He started in the streets, perhaps, but then grew into so much more.

Grimaud nods toward the door. “We should leave separately." 

Athos hums in agreement, cupping Grimaud's cheek to meet his eyes. "Your word," he demands, softening the request with a kiss. "That you won't go after her again."

"If she comes for you," Grimaud qualifies. First, he kisses Athos's palm, then his lips again. "I won't until then."

Athos seems to accept that. "Unless she comes for us first," he amends. He won't let Anne put Grimaud's life in danger, either. He leans into the kiss, unwilling to let go of Grimaud just yet, though he knows he has to.

"Out, Musketeer," Grimaud whispers, nodding again toward the door.

Aramis takes advantage of that moment to leave, ducking back toward the Garrison.

Smiling, Athos gives Grimaud another kiss to be contrary before he reluctantly lets go and steps out, looking back one last time as Grimaud disappears into the shadows. He'll return to the Garrison, looking thoughtful and tentatively relieved.

Aramis is waiting for him when he gets back, leaning against a post and eating an apple. When he sees Athos appear, he pushes off, coming closer, eyebrows up. "Is everything all right?"

"It is now," Athos answers, simply, headed for his office. "Has d'Artagnan found out more about Marcheaux?" he inquires, stopping on the stairs that lead up.

"Not yet." Aramis follows, tossing his apple core at the stables. He waits until they are in Athos’s office to speak again, with the door closed."I followed you," he prefaces.

Athos arches an eyebrow at that, throwing Aramis a look from above his shoulder. "When?" he inquires, not sounding very concerned. 'Why' would probably be a better question, but they can get to it later. He isn't used to having secrets to hide from Aramis.

"When Grantaire came to fetch you," Aramis says, not sitting, in case Athos starts to yell. "I overheard. Milady and ... "

_ Grimaud _ .

That does bring Athos short, the words making him falter. He turns around and meets Aramis's eyes, lifting his chin. Well?

"Do you want me to make sure she really leaves the city?" Aramis asks, watching Athos's face warily.

The line of Athos's shoulders relaxes minutely at the answer and he moves behind his desk, sitting down. "Grimaud is," he says, quietly. It feels odd to speak about his lover so openly with anyone. He considers Aramis carefully, his eyes serious. If his friend has anything to say about this ill-advised relationship, now would be the time.

All Aramis says is, "he wanted to hurt you.”

Athos tilts his head in silent agreement because Grimaud did try to hurt him. "Now he's protecting me," he says quietly. He's talking about Milady but it's also true for the rest of the threats he faces.

His expression growing more thoughtful and softer, Aramis takes a step closer. "She was right in one respect: you are in danger if anyone finds out."

"No one will find out," Athos says, quietly. He smiles, small but genuine. "No one I would not trust with my secrets, that is."

That earns a smile from Aramis; he won't say anything. "I feel a small sense of balancing the scales," he dares to tease, referring to the many secrets of his Athos has been privy to through the years. 

Athos huffs but he's not upset, leaning back in his seat. He hums, thoughtfully. "It is ill-advised," he admits. Perhaps not as ill-advised as Aramis's affair with the Queen, but still pretty ill-advised nonetheless.

"Matters of the heart rarely follow logic or orders," Aramis replies and it seems it is true even for Athos, who prides himself on being calm and pragmatic at all times.

"Is he the one you've been feeding?" Aramis asks, just putting two things together.

"Sometimes he eats nothing all day," Athos confirms, sighing through his nose. Grimaud is so used to being hungry he can just ignore it, Athos suspects.

Aramis raises his brows at that, concerned. "Make sure to take some apples, then," he says, moving back toward the door. 

"And carrots," Athos confirms. He tries to take good care of Grimaud. 

"What shall I tell d'Artagnan and Porthos about Milady's return?" Aramis inquires. Not about that other thing, that's no one else's business. 

"You can tell the truth. I have sent her away and I don't believe she will return again." Which doesn’t mean they shouldn’t watch for her. None of them take Milady de Winter lightly.

Aramis nods and heads out, holding the door open for a few more seconds, grinning wide. "I cannot believe...." he tells Athos, dramatically, and abruptly closes the door when Athos throws a glove at him. 

It hits the closed door with a soft thump and Athos snorts, shaking his head as he gets back to work. He's still a little rattled by what happened earlier, but his friend's quiet support has done him good.

Of course, d'Artagnan and Porthos both come by after Aramis tells them about Milady, asking about what transpired and whether they should worry about it. Athos explains, not giving any specifics on why she came and why she left, but telling enough of the truth to his friends so they know what to look out for.

When the evening bell rings Grimaud is on his way to Athos’s room, feeling tired. He did follow the wife as discreetly as he could, and saw her leave the city though not quickly nor directly.

When he lets himself into Athos's room, he leans back against the door with a quiet sigh. His eyebrows arch a little as he sees that Athos has prepared dinner for him, setting two plates, cups, food and a bottle of wine on his small desk. 

“Tired?" Athos asks as he looks up from his book, quietly.

A small shrug is the answer. No sense in complaining, is there? Life goes on. Grimaud smells the food, though, coming closer when Athos gestures for him to sit down. 

Grimaud shrugs off his coat and comes close, sitting. "She went east," he tells Athos as the Musketeers pours them both cups of wine. Athos nods but doesn't ask for details. He doesn't really want to know.

After draining his glass, Grimaud reaches over to cup Athos's cheek, tracing his thumb along the line of his jaw. 

It's as close as he can get to telling Athos that he loves him, really. Fortunately Athos is fluent in Grimaud’s body language by now and he hears it loud and clear. He smiles, small but fond, and turns his head to kiss Grimaud's palm, gently. "Eat," he says, before they both get distracted.

Grimaud will eat. He takes pieces of bread, chewing slowly, almost thoughtfully. "She's beautiful," he says after a while. 

"Yes," Athos agrees, because it is true. Anne is the most beautiful woman he has ever met, and he thinks always will be. He arches his eyebrows at Grimaud. What of it?

Nothing of it, Grimaud’s shrug says. He isn't one for physical beauty quite honestly, but he did notice that. He goes back to eating, his foot resting against Athos.

Athos doesn't truly care about physical beauty either, though he had been beguiled by Anne's, as a younger man. He finds Grimaud quite handsome in his own way, but he won't say so unless asked. He leans into the touch, his knee coming to rest against Grimaud's and he eats quietly, looking thoughtful. He still has something to tell Grimaud but he'll wait until dinner is over and the line of Grimaud's shoulders has gone down somewhat.

Once they’ve finished eating they can undress, and Grimaud pulls Athos toward the bed so they can lie down together. Athos wraps an arm around his waist, stroking up his back. "Aramis followed me, today," he states, even as he feels Grimaud stiffen and lean back to stare, his jaw working. 

He tightens his grip on Grimaud, leaning closer. "I trust Aramis with my life," he says, quietly. "He will keep our secret, as I keep several of his," he explains, still stroking across Grimaud's back.

Aramis had not seemed to care much, in truth. He did not look at Athos any differently. And he probably won't look at Grimaud any differently either, though he might very well smirk a little, knowing him. But no more than he would smirk at a woman who held Athos's heart.

"Can you be sure?" Grimaud asks, gruffly. 

"I am sure. He is one of my dearest friends and I trust him absolutely." But because he is not sure that will be enough for Grimaud, he adds, "and what I know of Aramis’s secrets could send him, and everyone he loves, to the gallows."

That does make Grimaud feel better, actually. Athos knows him very well. The line of his shoulders softens again and he reaches out to touch Athos’s cheek, making him smile and lean in, resting their foreheads together. 

Today was a dangerous day, but it seems they managed to make the most of it together.


	20. A Matter of Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I have a favour to ask of you, Lucien," Athos says urgently, his eyes intent. "To beg of you," he amends, stepping closer again, one hand resting on Grimaud's pauldron. And beg he would, if needed.

The news comes early in the afternoon. The Musketeers are at the Palace, investigating a possible theft from Treville's office, when all the bells start ringing. Athos looks up, alarmed, and strides to the garden, where people seem to be gathering. The King is lying on the ground, motionless. Athos immediately steps up, keeping the onlookers at bay as he shouts for a doctor. He knows it is too late still, as the King isn't breathing anymore.

The rest of the day is pandemonium. The nobles are whispering about an army led by Gaston walking on Paris, the Queen's eyes are red-rimmed as she walks across the whispering Court, and the High Council reveals that Treville is to be the next regent. It is a lot at once and Athos is trying his best to keep up when Treville very discreetly summons him to a secluded apartment in the West wing of the Palace. 

Treville's eyes are alarmed and intent, focusing sharply on Athos when he steps in. He takes Athos by the arm and leads him to the adjoining bedroom where the Dauphin is playing quietly with a toy horse on the bed.

"It has started already," Treville says, his voice low not to alarm the child. "The Fronde. Gaston is gathering his armies; some of the nobles Louis spurned are out for blood. We need to get the King out of here." The child laughs quietly as he moves his toy horse across the pillow. "You need to take him away, Athos, and hide him somewhere safe. Get someone you trust to look over him and come back, so no-one suspects you are responsible for the Dauphin's disappearance. We cannot protect him here, not now. He needs to disappear until the situation is clearer."

Athos nods, gravely. "I will," he confirms, his eyes determined. "Upon my life, I will protect the King." Treville seems satisfied and gently wraps a plain brown cape around the child’s shoulders, explaining that he is going to go on a little trip with Athos. 

“Your majesty,” Athos says respectfully, bowing before he scoops the child up, carrying him out through the back corridor. 

*** 

When the bells start ringing, Grimaud immediately thinks of Athos. He’s not sure what the alarm means but it cannot be good and he takes a horse, heading for the palace and sneaking in through an entrance few know about. It only takes a moment to hear the whispers.

The King is dead.

It's enough to send Grimaud reeling. The King? Dead?

Even he knows what this can mean: chaos. He needs to find Athos. 

The Palace is vast still and it takes a while before he catches a glimpse of the Captain’s uniform from afar, hurrying towards the stables without being seen, carrying something under his cape.

It's enough to get Grimaud running, shoving a frazzled servant out of the way. He can hear shouting, crying even. He needs to get to Athos and he does, stepping into the cool shade of the stables.

Out of the darkness Athos comes, his musket up and his eyes dark with a ruthlessness that doesn't not often come out, his jaw dangerously set. The look on his face immediately softens when he recognizes Grimaud and he lowers his arquebus, stepping closer.

"Athos," Grimaud says, pushing his hood back from his face. 

"Are you well?" Athos asks immediately, looking concerned. He holds out a hand to touch Grimaud's jaw briefly, before leaning away. As Grimaud nods, a soft rustle comes from the back of the stables, followed by a child's voice quietly singing.

Grimaud cocks his head, then gives Athos a raised brow in question.

"I have a favour to ask of you, Lucien," Athos says urgently, his eyes intent. "To beg of you," he amends, stepping closer again, one hand resting on Grimaud's pauldron. And beg he would, if needed.

"What is it?" Grimaud asks, his hand on Athos's arm. He'll do it, of course. That's practically a given.

As he takes Grimaud by the elbow and leads him deeper into the stables, Athos wonders if this is a gamble he will come to regret. The King must be hidden away, quickly and safely. His first thought had been to entrust him to Constance at the Garrison, but he fears that would be too predictable for his enemies. Grimaud's cottage, on the other hand. No one would suspect Athos took the King there.

Perhaps it is a mad idea, to leave the future King of France with Grimaud, who has never made a secret of his hatred for the monarchy. But Athos trusts Grimaud with his very life, and that of his sovereign as well. He does not think Grimaud would hurt a child, either, no matter how important.

Pushing a stable door open, Athos reveals the Dauphin sitting in the hay, still playing with his toy horse. Grimaud’s eyes go wide. 

"He cannot stay here," Athos says, quietly. "The Court is out for blood."

Grimaud just stares at him in return and Athos takes his hand. “Will you take him, Lucien? I trust you with my life." And indeed, he will be led to the gallows if anything happens to the Dauphin under his care. Provided he does not shoot himself first. "And his," he adds, looking back to Louis. He's a quiet child, staring up at them with a small smile. 

His eyes are a familiar brown, Grimaud thinks, distantly. He’s never been that close to a king before. Athos squeezes his hand again and Grimaud snaps out of it, giving a sharp nod. 

“You know where." No one will come looking for them at the derelict cottage. He offers his hand to the boy, brusque; he has had little interaction with children. "Come with me, boy. Have you ridden a horse?"

The Dauphin looks between them, a little spooked. Athos goes to his knees, helping him stand  up. "You must go with Lucien, your Majesty," he says, quietly. "He will keep you safe until you can return."

"And Mama?" Louis asks, his voice small.

"I will watch over the Queen until you return, I give you my word," Athos says, seriously.

Louis's lip wobbles, but just once. He nods, gathering his courage to take Grimaud's hand, tentatively. He tilts his chin up, determined. "I can ride, Monsieur."

"Come on, then," Grimaud says. He takes a saddled horse and lifts the boy onto it. "Distract them," he tells Athos.

"Thank you," Athos says, quietly, his hand finding Grimaud’s again, squeezing before he lets go. Then he rides out , shooting his musket to attract attention and setting his horse towards Paris. Several Red Guard follow him.

With the boy tucked under his cloak, Grimaud rides off at a smooth gallop in the opposite direction. It takes about an hour to get to the small cabin. In his defense, the boy hardly says a word, holding tightly onto Grimaud's arms. 

"This is the shoddiest place you'll ever see," Grimaud tells the boy when they dismount, gruffly. He shucks his cloak and then takes off the boy's too. "Sit there," he says, of the one chair. It's back from the window. "And stay quiet."

The boy nods, climbing into the chair and sitting, his little fingers laced together.

It's unnerving, Grimaud thinks, for a child to sit so still. Perhaps he is used to it, having to attend endless events with his parents. Perhaps Grimaud scares him a little, too, more than Athos had. 

After a while he starts looking around the small house, quietly surprised by the lack of carpets and gold-embroidered curtains. He holds his toy horse tighter under his arm, glancing towards Grimaud often. He does grow bored, at length, though he doesn’t make a sound, fidgeting a little on the uncomfortable chair. 

After an hour or so Grimaud caves in, whittling the boy a small figure from wood, a rider to go with his toy horse. He hands it over with a grunt, and puts Louis on the bed so he can play on the (relatively) clean blanket. The king seems delighted, thanking Grimaud and playing with both toys, making quiet noises as he invents stories for them.

He falls asleep like this, even though he didn't have dinner. It has been a tiring day. Grimaud grits his teeth and pulls the blanket up over the boy's shoulders.

Where is Athos?

***

Athos is still in Paris, fighting four Red Guards at once. He walks away victorious, but with a sprained ankle and a bullet hole in his arm. It's a flesh wound, bleeding sluggishly but continuously, making his sleeve stiff with blood and his whole shoulder feel like it's on fire.

"Athos," Aramis says, as soon as there is a lull in the fighting. "Let me tend to you." 

With a wince Athos sits down, removing his pauldron slowly. He’s lost enough blood that he feels dazed, exhaustion bearing down on him even though he knows that Gaston’s armies are still marching on Paris. 

Aramis pours the strongest spirit he can find onto the wound and Athos bites down a groan, his head down as he lets his friend ready the needle and start to sew. The bullet went right out of his arm on the other side, so there won’t be any fishing inside his muscle to retrieve it, at least. Small mercies. 

Coming in with a pitcher of wine, Porthos gives Athos’s uninjured shoulder a careful squeeze and settles in front of him, pouring them all a drink. 

"I just need to know one thing, Athos," Aramis whispers, "is the dauphin all right?"

Athos nods, jerkily. "He is safe," he says. "He will remain hidden until Paris is safe for him once more."

"The Queen is worried," Aramis returns. And so is he. "Where is he?" 

Glancing between the two of them, Porthos sips on his wine. Athos looks up to meet Aramis's eyes, and shakes his head, just once. "I cannot say. But he is safe, Aramis, and cared for." Gruffly, no doubt, but cared for.

Aramis's jaw works. He goes back to sewing. "We have to stop the King's brother."

"Treville has a plan," Porthos notes. "I'm to go with him to the rebel camp tomorrow."

“He told me,” Athos says, through clenched teeth. It's a risky plan, but it might just work.

Eventually, Aramis is done stitching and bandages over the wounds. "You need to be careful," he tells Athos, "and rest. Is there any brandy left, Porthos?"

“I’ll go and ask,” the other Musketeer answers, stepping out. Brandy, Athos thinks, wistfully. He needs to sleep and knows it will be difficult with the pain in his arm and without Grimaud by his side.

"Is he with Grimaud?" Aramis asks in a whisper. "Athos. I cannot but worry."

"I know," Athos says, clasping Aramis's shoulder with his good arm. "He is," he finally admits. "No one will find them. Grimaud is very good at disappearing in the shadows." As they all know.

That's terrifying and reassuring at the same time, Aramis thinks. "You trust him," he says quietly. He takes a deep breath. "If you trust him, I must do the same." 

"No harm will come to the King, Aramis," Athos says, and he sounds absolutely certain. He would not have trusted Grimaud with Louis if there had been any doubt in his heart.

"Brandy," Porthos says, entering with the bottle held out in front of him. "Everything all right?" he asks, looking between Athos and Aramis. He knows there’s something he is not being told. It doesn’t bother him, exactly, but he feels concerned for his friends. 

"As it can be," Aramis sighs. "I need to go to the palace."

"Go with Aramis," Athos tells Porthos as he accepts the bottle with a grateful smile. "The Queen needs protection."

"What about you?" Porthos asks. "You going to be all right?"

“Of course,” Athos answers, though he looks tense, worried and pained. "I'll stay with d'Artagnan. We’ll keep watch over the Garrison."

With a nod, Porthos follows Aramis out.

***

In the small cottage, Grimaud keeps the fire going. When he is sure the child will stay asleep, he heads into the dark. It's easy to hunt here, and he finds three small squirrels. He skins and guts them, then brings them inside, taking care to cook them over the fire. He knows the child will be hungry when he wakes up.

Louis will sleep quietly until morning, taking up most of the space in Grimaud's bed, burrowed under the blankets. In the distance, just before dawn, Grimaud can hear the troops. They don’t come anywhere near the abandoned village; why would they? 

When the boy wakes, Grimaud gestures to the meat, cool and shredded on the table. For a moment, Louis just watches him and something registers in Grimaud's mind. "No chamberpot here," he tells the boy. "Come." 

That’s how Lucien Grimaud teaches Louis XIV how to piss against a tree. 

The boy seems to like it, which makes sense. It's a lot more fun than the chamberpot, and it feels like something that would be forbidden at the Palace, which makes it even better.

When they’re done Louis sits at the table and tries the meat, his nose scrunching up. It's cold and tough but he's hungry, and as there is nothing else, he will eat his share of it. Watching him, Grimaud itches to return to Paris. He struggles mightily at his exile of sorts, at his inability to be where something paramount is happening and Athos is in danger. It grates on him like a dull knife, though he knows he was given the most important mission of them all: keeping the King safe. 

After breakfast, Grimaud somehow ends up being roped into a game that involves running (or in his case walking) about the small room and touching each other's shoulders. One after the other, back and forth. It's quite strange but young Louis seems to be having fun, proposing all sorts of ridiculous games, some real, some invented.

Louis gets cranky as the evening draws closer. He is fed up of being in the dank little cottage, and wants his mother, less scratchy sheets, and candy. In that order. Grimaud has none of that to give him and he frowns mightily at the requests. The child is spoiled. He needs to learn that not everyone has such privileges.

It takes a great deal of will - more than Grimaud had expected - to keep from shouting at the child. Finally, he gets him to eat dinner again, and go back to bed for the night. 

When he hears a horse gallop closer Grimaud steps out into the dark, remaining concealed until he recognizes Athos, then coming up to help him down from his horse. 

From the look on Athos’s face, he knows something happened. His lover’s eyes are red and he looks exhausted. Grimaud reaches out to support him, Athos’s knees buckling when his feet hit the ground. He is injured, Grimaud can tell at once, in his body and in his heart. Athos wraps his good arm around Grimaud's shoulders for support, watching him in the murk. "How is he?" he asks, quietly.

"Sleeping." Grimaud loops an arm around Athos's waist, helping him inside and into the lone chair. Athos looks over to the bed and here is Louis indeed, his cheek on Grimaud’s mangy pillow. 

The lines seem etched deeper into Atho's face today and Grimaud kneels to get his boots off, watching him carefully. Athos sits stiffly, holding his injured arm tight to his side. 

"Treville is dead," he whispers, his eyes wide and dark in the dim light. "Marcheaux shot him." The memory of Treville, lying on the vivid grass, blood slowly spreading around him and seeping into his blue cape, makes his heart ache. Treville had gone out fighting heroically, as Athos always suspected he would.

That’s two shocks in two days and Grimaud rocks back onto his heels. He pulls off Athos's socks, then opens his doublet to look at his wound. It has bled through his shirt and it makes Grimaud’s jaw go tight with anger. 

"Is he dead?" he asks, of Marcheaux. If he isn’t yet, he will be very soon. 

"d'Artagnan killed him," Athos confirms, quietly. It was gruesome too, and Athos felt no sympathy.

Grimaud nods, satisfied. Even him felt a grudging respect for the former Minister, and he is glad he was avenged. From somewhere, he pulls an old piece of cloth that he can use to dab at Athos's bandages. Athos lets him, closing his eyes and letting his head hang. He is completely drained.

"And now, the Queen is alone," Grimaud says. Alone, and more vulnerable than ever.

"Aramis is with her," Athos corrects, looking up to watch Grimaud as he tends to his wound. "He won't leave her side." He considers his lover, cupping his cheek and smiling a little when Grimaud leans into it. 

"And Gaston?" Grimaud asks, though he finds the man too cowardly to be of any real threat. 

"He's lost all his allies," Athos says, stroking his fingers along Grimaud's scruffy jaw. "It's only a matter of time before he runs." He leans down to press their forehead togethers, gently. "Thank you," he whispers. "For keeping the King safe, when no one else could." He suspects it wasn't easy for Grimaud, staying away from the fight.

"He is ... a strange boy," Grimaud tells Athos, though there is, despite himself, an underlying gruff fondness there. "Will he go back to Paris now?" he asks.

"He is the King now, he must," Athos points out, giving Grimaud a wan smile. "His mother worries. We can take him back to the Palace tomorrow." Marcheaux is dead, the Red Guard is no more, and Gaston is defeated for the time being. Louis is safe.

At least for now.

Levering to his feet, Grimaud goes to his bed and gathers up the boy in his nest of blankets, settling him by the fire. The boy doesn’t protest, sleeping on as Grimaud sets him by the fire. Athos will, though, his eyebrows arching. You can't expect him to take the bed while the King sleeps on the floor, Grimaud.

Grimaud arches his eyebrows right back, unyielding. "Lie down," he tells Athos, brooking no argument. Athos frowns but he does so, too exhausted to fight. He lies down on his back and then curls on his good side, reaching out for Grimaud. Already, his eyelids are dipping but he fights it, wanting to hold his lover before he falls asleep.

"Rest," Grimaud all but croons, brushing Athos’s hair back from his face. Athos's injury still twists his own gut, but Grimaud is so glad to see his lover that he doesn't care about anything else at the moment, all other feelings, desires, and instincts pushed aside for this.

Athos nods, leaning in for a close-mouthed kiss before he settles against Grimaud, his eyes falling shut. He's exhausted enough to sleep through a good part of the night despite the pain in his shoulder and the sadness in his mind, keeping Grimaud close until dawn breaks. 


	21. Winds of Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grimaud's entire life has been upended and he knows it, his eyebrows furrowing.
> 
> "What will you do, now?" Athos asks, considering his lover. Surely, not return to petty crimes and theft. He thinks Grimaud has grown past this. "Will you work with me, when I have need of you?"

After such an exhausting day, Athos sleeps like the dead until morning. Grimaud spends a long time watching him in the dim light of dawn and then gets up, getting dressed to see if he can find something to hunt and gather berries for breakfast. That way at least, Louis and Athos will have something to eat. It is, right now, the best he can do.

When the sun is up, he comes back, gently waking Athos with a squeeze to his uninjured shoulder. The Captain grumbles a little but he gets up easily enough, wincing at the way his shoulder feels. He steps out to get food from his saddlebags: he brought a loaf of bread, biscuits and apples for everyone, suspecting Lucien wouldn’t have much at the hovel. 

Between that and the food Grimaud foraged, it’s a decent breakfast. Perhaps not fit for a King, but it will serve. Grimaud wakes the boy next, tapping him on the shoulder. "Up now," he murmurs. "You're going home today to see your mum."

Louis looks sleepy and his hair is wild but he smiles at the words, clearly excited to see his mother again. There are only two chairs at the breakfast table so Athos, with a soft apology, sits him up on his knees and cuts an apple into thin slices for him.

How is it that Athos looks so comfortable with the boy? It's a mystery to Grimaud. They can have bread too, and biscuits, and berries, and a small roasted rabbit Grimpaud caught. It's a feast, considering, though Louis does voice a wish for candy again. "Not everyone gets candy," Grimaud notes as he eats a biscuit. "Don't forget that when you're back in your palace, little man."

The future king considers the words carefully. "Who doesn't get candy?" he inquires, stuffing an apple slice in his mouth and swallowing it. Athos taps his knee gently. "Chew, your majesty."

"Most people," Grimaud says as he too chews an apple slice. "They don't have all the fancy things you have. You need to remember that, always. When you walk the streets of Paris, you will have more than most everyone else, combined."

Louis seems to accept what Monsieur Lucien is saying, though it doesn't really make any sense  in his mind. He understands, but it stays abstract, not linked to reality. "I will remember," he says, because Grimaud seems serious about it.

"You'll be a better King if you do,” Grimaud says intently, and Louis gives a little shrug. He doesn't really want to be King. It sounds terribly tedious.

Grimaud gestures at the hovel around them. "Did you know that this is where I grew up? It's not  a palace, is it?"

Shaking his head, Louis looks around. It’s not, it’s much too small. "Where did your parents sleep?" he asks, curious. There is only one bed, and he doesn't think it would fit his mother, father and himself.

"I only had a mother," Grimaud says. "And only for a little while. I slept where you slept last night, on the floor." His eyes flick to Athos, then back to the boy. This is easier to admit to without looking at Athos.

Louis glances at the floor, his eyebrows furrowing. He wasn't cold the night before, but he can't  imagine always sleeping on the floor. "I only have my mother too, now," he says, looking up to Grimaud with serious eyes.

Athos says nothing, watching the exchange thoughtfully.

"She loves you. She won't leave you. My mum left. Lots of mums leave. Or they die. They don't have enough food, or they get hurt. Your responsibility as king is to make sure that everyone has enough food. And that they are safe." Grimaud raises his brows, not looking away from Louis. "Do you understand?"

That's a pretty big responsibility, in Louis' opinion, and he isn't sure how he will manage to keep all the mothers safe from harm. Perhaps he could invite them all to the Palace, when he's older? He nods, still, because he can tell this is a serious issue and doesn't want to disappoint Monsieur Lucien. "Yes," he says, gravely. "I understand."

"All right," Grimaud tells him. "Are you ready to go back to your palace now?"

"And see your mother," Athos adds gently, smiling when Louis' face lights up. He'll wash the boy's face and comb his hair a little before getting him dressed, amused when Louis insists on taking both his toy horse and the little figure Grimaud made for him back to the Palace. He's excited but he behaves, waiting for Grimaud and Athos patiently as they get ready.

The little boy has a charm that Grimaud is not capable of understanding, though he does seem to be falling prey to it, at least to a degree. He grumbles a little but helps Louis onto Athos’s horse, making sure he is comfortable before they start on their journey back to the Palace. 

They go slowly, watching the road and staying vigilant to make sure they don’t attract the wrong kind of attention. Once they reach the Palace, Grimaud veers them off to get in through the back entrance, and leaves them there. He gives Athos a nod and the Captain smiles back, arching his eyebrows meaningfully.  _ Come and see me later _ , it means. 

What a strange time it had been, Grimaud muses, as he heads for the servants’s quarters. 

Meanwhile Athos rides into the Palace, soon joined by Porthos, who was waiting for him. Porthos grins when he sees Louis tucked against Athos, bowing his head as they pass him by. Athos dismounts and he lets Louis walk next to him, stopping when they get to the throne room and Louis rushes to the Queen, squealing.

The queen entirely crumbles, bending to gather Louis into her arms in a tight hug, her nose pressed to his neck. He smells quite dirty, of course, but he seems to be all right. "Are you well?" she asks him, leaning back to look at him, not daring to set him down. "Are you unharmed? I was so worried."

Louis clings to his mother and answers her questions honestly, telling of the small house, the hiding, the playing, the new toy, and Lucien. And Athos, who brought biscuits and apples and let him ride on his horse. 

"Thank you, Athos," The Queen says quietly, and sincerely, Louis still hugged close to her side. "I am so sorry for your loss - for France's loss," she says. "The Minister was a wonderful man."

Athos tilts his head forward, his smile disappearing. "We will all miss him dearly," he confirms, looking down. He already does. It seems impossible that he will never see Treville again, never listen to his advice or argue with him.

"We will honor him today," she says, setting Louis down. She needs to get the King ready for the ceremony and she starts to walk him toward the bedrooms, pausing to rest a hand on Athos's arm. "Thank you," she says again, earnestly. "Who is this man he speaks of?"

"Your majesty," Athos answers formally, acknowledging her gratitude. His eyes are friendly though, his expression earnest. "A very dear friend, who has worked with me for a while, now. He is a man of the shadows, but his heart is with the people of Paris. I entrusted the King to him and he kept him safe while we fought Gaston and the Red Guard."

"If he is a friend of yours, he is a friend of ours," the Queen tells Athos, her expression warm. Athos nods, bowing his head. He's not sure Grimaud would consider himself a friend of the Queen's but he has indeed done her a great service, and Athos knows she is fully aware of it. 

Moving away, the Queen takes Louis' hand, keeping him close as they make for the royal apartments. The boy, just before they go into the hallway, looks over his shoulder with a small, crooked smile for Athos - one that looks just like Aramis's.

Athos smiles back to Louis, his eyes fond when he recognizes that grin. How no-one figured this out yet is a goddamn miracle.

***

The rest of the day is much less pleasant. Athos has to give a speech at the Palace and then don his full Musketeer uniform and his black mourning cloak as they head for the cathedral. His face is solemn and sad as he carries the coffin of his dear friend and mentor, his eyes downcast. 

Glancing up as he reaches the front, he spots Grimaud, standing in the shadows but there, and wearing what looks like a clean set of clothes, more formal than his usual fare. His hair is combed carefully for once, and he looks appropriately somber. Athos gives him a little nod, grateful. 

Doing this out of respect for Treville feels strange to Grimaud but he has done it nonetheless; an idea that still sits interestingly on his shoulders. He watches the young King walk by, his eyebrows arching when the little boy meets his eye too and the corner of his mouth quirks.

The end of the ceremony finds Athos's eyes red-rimmed and he sits for a while with the other Musketeers as they toast to Treville in a tavern. He doesn't drink though, sitting quietly between Porthos and d'Artagnan, looking downcast. He misses Treville already.

He goes back to his rooms early and he’s sitting on his bed in his chemise and braies when Grimaud joins him, managing a small smile as he looks up. Athos looks tired, and quietly defeated. There is no anger left in him, all of it was spent on the battlefield. He has only sadness now, and regret.

Without saying anything, Grimaud comes up, letting Athos lean his forehead against his belly. It's the only comfort he knows to offer. 

Athos closes his eyes, leaning into the touch. He prefers this to words, he finds. Words can only say so much. He presses his cheek to the soft cloth of Grimaud's new shirt, breathing him in. "Did you bathe for the funeral?" he whispers, in a way that would be amused in other circumstances.

He can feel as much as hear Grimaud's answer, a low huff of affirmation. He did. 

It makes Athos smile, despite it all. "I like it," he says against Grimaud's belly, wrapping his arms around his waist. "Thank you for coming." It had helped, seeing Grimaud in the crowd.

"He mattered to you," Grimaud, and really, as strange as it may seem, that is all he needed to know to be there. Athos nods slowly, closing his eyes. Treville did matter to him, like a second father.

After a moment Grimaud pulls away, but only to take off his doublet and sit. The two nights without sleep have caught up with him; he has hollows under his eyes.

"Sleep with me," Athos says quietly, moving back on the bed to make room for Grimaud once he's removed his boots and trousers.

It's easy - so easy and so good - to lie down in a soft, clean bed, to press his face to Athos's neck and to close his eyes. "What happens now?" he asks.

Slipping his fingers through Grimaud's hair, Athos enjoys how soft and light it feels against his skin. He blows out the candle, tugs the blankets up, and rests his cheek against Grimaud's forehead. "The Queen will be named Regent, most likely," he answers, just as quietly. A pause. "She will choose a new Minister of War." He knows he's probably going to be considered for it, but has no desire to accept.

Funny how Grimaud was thinking the same thing. He leans back to gaze at Athos in the gloom. "Will she appoint you?"

Athos looks back, steadily. "She might ask. I am a logical choice, as the Captain of the Musketeers." He shakes his head. "But I have no interest in politics."

Grimaud's smirk is dry. No it seems Athos doesn't, and that is one of the things about him that Grimaud finds appealing. "So you'll stay captain, then."

"I'm afraid I will," Athos says, grinning a little too. "Are you very disappointed you won't be bedding a Minister of War?" he teases gently, arching his eyebrows.

That makes Grimaud snort. "Hardly," he replies. "Though I do find myself in a strange place now." His entire life has been upended. 

"What will you do, now?" Athos asks, considering his lover. Surely, not return to petty crimes and theft. He thinks Grimaud has grown past this. "Will you work with me, when I have need of you?"

The question makes Grimaud think and he nods, a jerking of his head. Of course he will, when Athos asks.

"There is still much to be done," Athos points out. Paris is hardly heaven, after all. A new governor will be appointed, and the Musketeers will resume their work to pacify the streets. Surely Grimaud's expertise will be useful. Athos thinks about it for a second and then adds, "the Queen owes you. She would listen to what you have to say about ruling France, if you cared to meet her," he says, slowly.

"Me," Grimaud says. "Meet the queen." He scoffs, dryly and only slightly cruelly. Why on Earth would the Queen even be in the same room as Grimaud?

"You saved the life of her beloved, only child," Athos points out, arching his eyebrows. "She would most likely give you a title, if you asked politely." He knows Grimaud won't be interested in that, he's just making a point. "She cares more about the people than King Louis did," he adds, quietly. "But she does not know how the poorest of us have to live, every day. You do."

"Perhaps," Grimaud says after a beat, which is all he'll commit to an idea that will never happen. The idea - meeting with the queen - still seems patently ridiculous. 

Athos smiles, leaning in to kiss Grimaud gently. Though she is not as disconnected from reality as Louis had been, it would do the Queen good, he thinks, to hear what Grimaud has to say. He will ask, and see what she thinks. "I think you'll end up being an unofficial Musketeer," Athos adds, smirking a little because he knows what Grimaud thinks of that.

All Lucien does is give his head a shake and settle back into Athos's embrace, even as Athos smiles and presses a kiss to the scar above his eyebrow, stroking through his hair again. "Mark my words, Lucien," he teases, closing his eyes. 

"I will mark the day you seem to have lost your wits," Grimaud grumbles, pressing a bristly kiss to Athos's neck before closing his eyes again. It makes Athos huff but he's still smiling, stroking his hand across Grimaud's shoulders. He won't speak any more, exhaustion weighing heavily on both of them.

***

When Grimaud wakes up, he has no idea what time it is and still feels groggy. He blinks, his hair a nest of tangles, and as he lifts his head he can see that the room is bright, too bright for him to sneak out of the Garrison unnoticed. He's quite tempted to just go back to sleep, really.

He turns his head and Athos is sleeping soundly next to him, his face relaxed and his breathing slow and deep. Grimaud watches him for a long time before he settles back against him, closing his eyes again. 

It's a knock on the door that finally wakes them.

"Someone's at your door, Captain," Grimaud grumbles, making Athos groan and blink at how bright his room already is. "What time is it?" he asks, his voice hoarse. "Has the bell rung already?" His shoulder hurts as he sits up and he winces.

"I don't know," Grimaud says, moving to sit as someone knocks on the door again. "And yet, someone still knocks."

Athos stands up and puts his trousers back on, doing his fly but not bothering to tuck his  chemise in. He gestures for Grimaud to stay where he is and cracks the door open, eyebrows arching. "What is it?"

Aramis is there, lifting his tray with a smile. "I thought you might be hungry, seeing as you didn't come to breakfast."

Ah, good, Grimaud thinks. The seamstress. He pulls on his trousers, too.

Leaning against the door, Athos arches his eyebrows at his friend. "I'm not alone," he says, perhaps unnecessarily. 

"That's why I brought two eggs," Aramis answers easily, gesturing again.

Feeling his stomach pang with hunger, Grimaud mutters, "decide at some point."

Athos smiles to Aramis, his eyebrow arching as he hears Grimaud mutter behind him. He turns  around to give him a look (and make sure he's dressed) before he lets Aramis in. "Thank you," he says, taking the tray from him and setting it on the table. "What time is it?"

"Somewhere between morning and noon bell," Aramis tells him as he steps in, closing the door. "Hello," he tells Grimaud. "I owe you a debt of thanks. For taking care of the Dauphin."

With a grunt, Grimaud takes one of the eggs, working to pull away the shell, looking up when Athos nudges him in the ribs. Play nice, Lucien. 

"Do you need to look at the stitches again?" Athos asks, rolling his shoulder carefully.

"I do," Aramis says, moving to stand over Athos and reach for the bandages.

"He's smart," Grimaud finally offers. "The boy."

At that, Aramis grins. "I'm not surprised."

Athos removes his shirt and turns towards Aramis, letting him have a look at the wound. He looks between Grimaud and Aramis, wondering how much the former has found out already. He wouldn't be terribly surprised if Grimaud guessed who Louis' real father was, after spending a little time with him. "He is," he confirms, because it is true. Louis in a singular child.

Unwrapping the muslin, Aramis peers at the stitches. "You nearly tore one," he points out, dabbing at it. Athos shrugs with his other shoulder. He had to fight the Red Guard, didn't he?

Aramis smiles to him, fondly. "I think you'll live."

"You'd better," Grimaud says, watching closely, and his arch tone makes Athos smile. "Or else," he confirms, ominously.

Exactly.  _ Or else _ . Grimaud arches a brow at him.

It all makes Aramis chuckles as he rebandages Athos's shoulder. "Are you prepared to be Minister?" he asks Athos.

"He's not going to be," Grimaud informs him wryly. "He wishes to stay Captain."

"I'm not interested in politics. I wouldn't be good at it, either," Athos confirms, and then considers Aramis for a few seconds. "You would."

"Who, me?" Aramis says with a teasing false modesty. "... I'm not sure that would be wise, Athos. Are you?"

"I can't think of anyone else I would rather recommend," Athos says, honestly. He glances to Grimaud to have his opinion on the matter, if he has one. Aramis is almost startlingly perfect for the job, really.

"You'd be near the boy all day," Grimaud notes, watching Aramis closely. "Very close."

Looking down, Aramis nods. "I would imagine so."

The boy needs a father figure, and they all know it. Athos won't say so out loud but he clasps Aramis's shoulder, companionably. "That too. I would still need your skills as a Musketeer on occasion," he adds, should Aramis worry over getting bored.

"It hasn't even been offered yet," Aramis deflects. But it will, especially if Athos suggests it. He suspects they both know that, but he lets Arams get away with it anyway. 

"You will be fine," he says of Athos's wound. "And I should leave you to it. I'll keep Porthos and d'Artagnan downstairs."

"Thank you," Athos says. "I'll join you in a moment.”

"Don't hurry," Aramis returns. "It is very quiet today."

Athos watches him leave before he comes back to the table, to share his breakfast with Grimaud.


	22. A Lazy Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos hums, crossing his arms. "It's a slow day," he reminds. Nothing much will be happening in the wake of what unfolded recently. There are still things to be done, for sure, but there is no hurry. He arches an eyebrow, considering Grimaud and giving him a slow smile.

When the door closes, Grimaud turns his gaze to Athos. "And you say you're not good at politics."

"That wasn't politics," Athos corrects. "Just friendly persuasion. I have no patience for politicians." In Athos’s opinion, all politicians ever do is talk, and never act. Grimaud hums in agreement. 

"Will they find out that the boy is Aramis's son if he is in the palace all the t ime?" Grimaud asks as he chews, arching an eyebrow at Athos. The Captain watches him for a second and then shrugs, careful about his stitches. So Grimaud did figure it out.

"Hopefully not," he says, with a sigh. "Though such a rumor would matter less now that Anne is Regent."

"It still means that the rumor would exist," Grimaud states, "to be capitalized on." He certainly would have tried to do just that, before he met Athos. 

"There have always been rumours like these," Athos points out. "No matter the Queen. If she treats them fairly, the people won't care."

“They could still turn on her," Grimaud insists, meaningfully.

It is true, and Athos has to nod. "They didn't turn on Louis." And he hadn't been treating the people fairly at all. He can admit that to Grimaud now, and to himself. 

"He was a man. And unless women are all strong as your lady Musketeer is, then ... " Grimaud shrugs, taking another bite. "I hope she can hold her ground."

"Constance is by no means an exception," Athos protests, though he sees what Grimaud means. "And believe she will." He finishes breakfast and leans back in his chair. "We will all support her."

Grimaud leans back, feeling unusually thoughtful. Had he not met Athos, he would be trying to take advantage of the Regency by now; of the weak queen, of the child king. There are many ways to do that. Now, oddly enough, he can't imagine actually doing it. He too finishes his breakfast and he sits back, mimicking Athos's posture. 

"You must go to work now, to do your duty," he says, though he would rather Athos stayed with him. 

Athos hums, crossing his arms. "It's a slow day," he reminds. Nothing much will be happening in the wake of what unfolded recently. There are still things to be done, for sure, but there is no hurry. He arches an eyebrow, considering Grimaud and giving him a slow smile. 

He’s not exactly flirtatious, but there's a twinkle in his eyes, one that Lucien knows well by now. He looks back steadily, arching a brow in question.

"Will you come back to bed?” Athos asks, amused by the silent challenge on Grimaud's face.

In this little game they're playing, Grimaud lets out a huffed grunt. Why should he? Not that Athos's chair is terribly comfortable, but ... perhaps he would like to be coaxed.

The act makes Athos grin. He's never had to seduce Grimaud before and it's a thrill of sorts, to be put in that position now. He's not sure how he would go about it, if he truly meant to seduce a reluctant Grimaud, but this game, he can play.  He leans in to put his hand on Grimaud's knee and nudge his nose under his ear. "You would send me back to duty unloved?" he teases, still smiling.

Canting his head to allow Athos access, Grimaud can feel his eyelids dip. "What does love have to do with your duty, Musketeer?" he asks, his voice low.

As he nips on Grimaud's jaw, Athos smiles, and kisses up to his ear, nuzzling gently. His hand strokes higher on Grimaud's thigh. "Nothing. But you do," he answers, quiet and playful.

"Is that so?" Grimaud asks, pulling back - albeit reluctantly because the whole of his body is starting to tingle - to peer at Athos's face. 

Athos's hand stops very high on Grimaud's thigh, almost meeting his groin. "Well? Who will love me if you do not?" he challenges, knowing that Lucien will want no one touching him but himself.

It works well and Grimaud frowns, the muscle under Athos’s fingers twitching. "No-one. What would you have me do?" 

That earns a smile, Athos’s eyes crinkling at the corners. "Come to bed," he repeats, eyebrows arching. "And kiss me," he adds this time.

"Just kiss you?" Grimaud asks as he stands. "Is that all you wish for?" He sits on the bed, shaking his hair out of his eyes.

"It's a start," Athos answers pointedly, leaning in to take the kiss he’s been granted. Grimaud kisses him back, putting one hand in his hair, hunger already heating his gut, sparking hardness between his legs. He won't take charge though, whispering between their pressed mouths, "and next?"

"Take off your clothes," Athos requests, too quietly for it to be an  order, though his eyes are intent. All Grimaud needs to do is remove his tunic and trousers, only having braies under that. He leans back to pull his tunic away, letting it fall to the floor. Athos watches him, his eyes warm as they trail over Grimaud's chest and down to his underwear, which does very little to conceal his arousal. 

"All of it," he prompts, in that same quiet but intent tone, not reaching out to touch Grimaud just yet.

"Am I on display for you?" Grimaud asks, amused and arch even as he reaches for the tie. 

That’s the idea, and Athos nods to indicate as much. 

"An amusement?" Grimaud adds, and this time Athos frowns. “No,” he corrects. He likes to see Grimaud undress, but not because he finds it amusing. The look on Athos’s face is heated and wanting and he moves to take off his own shirt, evening the scales.

He sets it aside as Grimaud slips his fingers into his own underwear, circling his cock instead of pushing the fabric away, making Athos’s lips part, his tongue flicking out to wet his upper lip. He's flushed now, hot with desire and hard in his trousers. "Show me," he asks, his voice low. 

Gazing at him, Grimaud leans back on the bed and deliberately lifts his hips to slip off the linen and let it slide off the bed. Then he rests back, entirely on display.

It is an alluring sight if Athos ever saw one. His eyes are very dark as they travel down Grimaud's body and he moves closer quickly, slipping his fingers in Grimaud's hair and pulling him in for a heated kiss. His other hand comes to rest on Grimaud's belly, proprietary, and then he strokes down to wrap his fingers around Grimaud's cock.

He smiles as he can feel Grimaud exhale jerkily into the kiss, hips rocking. Reaching up, Grimaud pulls Athos over him, fingers digging into his shoulders. The desire he feels; it will, he is beginning to believe, never fail.

Athos’s hips fit easily between Grimaud's thighs and he rocks their bodies together a few times, just enough to make them both groan, shivers of pleasure rushing down his back. Then he moves, his hands on Grimaud's ass as he kisses down his chest, nipping on sensitive skin as he goes.

Reaching over his head, Grimaud grasps the headboard to keep from pushing Athos down, to keep from taking over. He watches, jaw tight with want, legs spreading.

Athos won't make him wait. He wants this too much to tease.

He licks over Grimaud's cock, taking him into his mouth and sucking slowly, stroking with his tongue as he bobs his head. His fingers squeeze Grimaud's ass, stroking where his body opens gently, gauging his reaction.

There is the expected stiffening. Is that what Athos wants, Lucien wonders, after all this? He thinks about it carefully. The last time they’d done this had felt quite brilliant, but does he want to do it again? He exhales through his nose, makes up his mind, and spreads his legs more.

Smiling, Athos kisses along Grimaud’s spread thighs. Perhaps, he thinks, if they do this enough times and it goes well each time, it will get easier for Lucien, the good memories outweighing the bad. In the mean time he rewards Grimaud’s trust by giving his cock a filthy, open-mouthed kiss as he reaches for the oil, leaning up again. "Yes?" he says, meaning to make sure.

Still trembling with pleasure, Grimaud’s answer is a curt nod. 

There is still a long way to go for this to be easy, Athos thinks, but he doesn't push, merely nodding in understanding. He does it, slipping one slick finger inside Grimaud carefully, slowly moving it as he takes him back inside his mouth, suckling. 

Gasping, Grimaud tries to relax and push back against the touch. There is so much history, so many bad memories to overcome with this. He stares stonily at the ceiling as he waits for it to be something other than uncomfortable, trying to focus on Athos's mouth and not entirely succeeding.

But then Athos finds that place and he groans, loosening a fraction. Athos is slow and careful, cro oking his finger inside of Grimaud once he finds the proper spot and sucking harder, trying to get Lucien to relax. It takes a while but it does work and Athos can press a second finger inside him, humming around his cock.

The grumpier part of Grimaud is chiding himself for letting Athos take control of the situation. Roles would be reversed if he'd taken charge. But that voice is low and quiet, buried in the sensation of what Athos is doing. It's not enough to forget himself, but it is enough to put some of his anxiety aside for a moment. His toes curl and uncurl, his back arches, his hands fist the sheets.

It's beautiful. Athos can tell that Grimaud is still uncomfortable with this, yet it seems to him that perhaps he is less so than the first time. It's a small improvement but he is aware such things take time and merely revels in the fact that Grimaud is trusting him with this.

Soon enough Lucien is reaching down, pulling at Athos's shoulders, urging him up, closer, inside. Athos moves easily, stroking his reddened lips up Grimaud's chest until he meets his mouth, kissing him again. He is very hard now, his cock pressed against Grimaud's thigh. He slips his fingers out and gets more oil, slicking himself before he lines up against Grimaud and presses in slowly, his eyes dark and watchful.

With hands in Athos's hair, Grimaud puts their foreheads together and actually closes his eyes, focusing on the sensation, on it being Athos. It hurts only a little, more pressure than anything else and he strives to keep his breathing steady.

To help him Athos moves slowly, pressing in without hurry, waiting for Grimaud to gradually relax rather than forcing his body to accommodate him. His breathing itches when their hips meet and he brushes their mouths together again, making a low noise of pleasure. Grimaud is very tight around him, and so hot Athos feels shivers of pleasure chase down his back.

When Athos pushes entirely in, Grimaud gasps, then eases some when Athos pulls back. His cock leaks between them and Athos strives to find that spot inside him again, to make it good. He is grateful Grimaud is willing to trust him in such an intimate manner, to make himself vulnerable to Athos when everything in him rebels at the idea, and he wants to make this as good as he can for him. 

He knows he’s found the perfect angle when Lucien makes a punched-out growling noise. It grows louder with each thrust, and it makes Grimaud tighten his grip on his lover, panting with it, sweat even beading at his hairline. His desire to come turns into a need to come and he hisses out Athos's name, opening his eyes as he feels him lifting up on an elbow. 

“Touch yourself," Athos says, meaning to watch as Lucien does just that, his hips snapping harder against Grimaud's now. 

Grimaud snarls but it lacks bite as he reaches a rough hand between them and fists himself nearly brutally. Athos watches him, the look on his face rapt and wanting. When Grimaud comes, he sucks in a breath and bucks with the power of it, his body clenching so tightly around Athos it makes him groan and jerk, striving to keep his eyes open as he chases his own pleasure, following almost immediately. 

Athos is still panting when Grimaud pushes him out, gently enough, his fair falling into his face. He withdraws but keeps close, smiling as he lies down half of top of Grimaud and feels him stroke his palms across his sweaty back, kneading his shoulders. 

Wrapping an arm around his waist Athos presses his face to Grimaud's neck, his heart beating madly and pleasure still rushing hotly through him, his eyes closed.

As he lies there recovering, it occurs to Grimaud that Aramis most likely knows what they've been doing. He finds he doesn't care. He can, quite simply and exotically, close his eyes and go back to sleep, even with a sticky belly.

Doing the same, Athos closes his eyes and holds Grimaud close as he dozes off as well. He'll only sleep for about ten minutes though, blinking awake with a little jerk as he remembers he does have to work that day.

Grimaud makes a small noise of disagreement but he opens his eyes too, watching Athos steadily and earning a kiss for his trouble, Athos humming into it softly. 

But as much as Athos actually wants to stay in bed all day, he cannot. He has to make an appearance downstairs and see whether all is well, at least. He isn’t getting up at once still, because Grimaud is kissing him back, fully and luxuriously, carding his fingers through his hair, striving to keep him in bed a little longer. 

Athos doesn’t fight it very hard, until there is another knock at his door. 

"Athos." It's Aramis again. "It seems the Queen wishes to see you."

"I will be down in a minute," he says, giving Grimaud an apologetic look. "Are you staying here until tonight?" he asks, moving to sit up.

"Unless you wish to explain the departure of a hooded man from your rooms," Grimaud replies, dry again, an arm behind his head as he watches. "She will ask you to be minister."

"Possibly," Athos agrees, standing up. He cleans himself at the bucket and then slips his uniform back on, glancing back to Grimaud. "Are you going to stay in bed all day?" he asks, smiling. It is an enticing thought.

"I think I'll go through your papers," Grimaud replies, mostly facetiously. There is still the book that Athos had lent him he could try to work toward. Maybe he'll sleep some more. He isn’t used to having this much free time. 

"I have nothing to hide," Athos answers, arching an eyebrow at the playfulness on Grimaud's face. The most incriminating thing he owns is a glass penis and Grimaud already knows about that, since he was the one to buy it.

"More's the pity," Grimaud replies, hands laced in his lap. "Tell her majesty I said hello," he adds, facetious again.

"I will," Athos says, meaningfully. He steps closer to give Grimaud a farewell kiss, cupping his jaw and leaning back up before the temptation to linger grows too strong. Grimaud reaches out, running his thumb along Athos's lower lip.

The touch sends a tingle down Athos's spine and he is quick to step back too, smiling to Grimaud. "Be good," he warns, fondly, as he opens the door. He'll give Grimaud one last glance before stepping out and closing the door behind him. 


	23. Moving Up In The World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What have you done to me, Musketeer," Grimaud mumbles against his mouth, grousing quietly. Here he is, content in the Musketeers's Garrison, planning to meet the Queen to talk about social needs. How bizarre.

Athos heads out to see the Queen at once, Aramis riding out with him. Once they get to the Palace however, they are told that the Queen wishes to meet with the Captain alone. Aramis shrugs easily and settles to wait for him in one of the many salons, Athos giving him a wry smile. 

The Queen welcomes Athos with a fond smile when he's shown in, somehow looking older, perhaps even wiser, since the passing of her husband. She gestures for him to sit next to her. "How are the Musketeers doing after their loss?" she asks, her voice kind.

"As well as can be expected,” Athos answers earnestly, watching her. “This loss weighs heavily on all of us. But we are ready to fight again, if needed."

"I hope that won't be necessary, I aim to negotiate an end to the war with my brother," she says, and Athos tilts his head in acknowledgement. He agrees with the plan wholeheartedly. Another war with Gaston would weaken Anne's regency, and bring nothing of use.

The Queen leans forward, attempting a small smile. "That is part of the reason I called you here. I am hoping to ask you to be the new Minister of War, Athos."

_ Ah _ . As expected, then. Athos holds her eyes, even as he shakes his head minutely. "You do me a great honour, your majesty, but I must decline. I’m afraid you would find me entirely ill-suited for the task." He pauses for a second, and then adds. " But if I may, it seems to me that the Musketeer Aramis would be a far better match."

"Athos - " The Queen ducks her head, feeling her cheeks heat.

Athos isn't deterred. He continues, perfectly serious. "He has great ecclesiastic knowledge, as well as military experience." He smiles, small and fond. "Not to mention great patience and charm, which can be useful in dealing with prickly ambassadors."

"Do you really not wish to take this position?" The Queen asks, unwilling to discuss the matter of Aramis just now. 

"No," Athos confirms, gravely. "I believe I will serve you better as Captain of the Garrison."

"Very well, then. In regards to that," she says, her smile brightening. "I would like the Musketeers to no longer be the King's Musketeers."

The Captain straightens up, his eyebrows arching faintly. "And what would you call us, your Majesty?" he inquires, though he has an inkling what she means.

"The  _ People's _ Musketeers, Captain." She raises her brows, waiting to see if he has an objection.

Athos tilts his head forward, thoughtful. "Perhaps that is what we have always been," he answers, his lips curving up into a smile.

"You know it, and I know it. Now, everyone will know it." The Queen smiles. "Perhaps we can change what people think of the monarchy. That is my deepest wish."

Though he is pleased with the idea, Athos he knows it will take time to change the people's opinion of their ruler. "Perhaps," he agrees, nodding. "On this matter, there is something else I would like to discuss."

"What is it, Athos?" The Queen’s gaze open. Athos - as well as the other Musketeers - have been her guardians and her protectors for so long. She would trust them with her life, as she has in the past. 

Leaning forward, Athos’s tone is serious. "If you truly wish to rally the people of Paris and France to the Regency, you will need to understand them first. And make sure their lives are more peaceful and prosperous than they have been of late." He pauses, pointedly. "You and I cannot understand what it is, to live in squalor and fear, as many have. But I know someone who does."

He can see how Anne’s mouth purses, how there is equal parts concern and affront for the idea that she doesn't understand her people, even if she knows this to be true. At length, she draws herself up, shoulders back in her fine gown. "And who is this person?"

"Lucien Grimaud, your Majesty. He was the man I entrusted the Dauphin to, during the revolt. He has had a very rough life, and has seen first hand what war and corrupt provincial aristocrats do to your people." He pauses, considering. "I believe he would be willing to advise you on matters regarding the poorest of your subjects."

Athos knew his words would not be pleasant to hear for the Queen, but he hoped she would have the intelligence and humility to accept them as true. It seems he was not mistaken.

The Queen considers this for a long moment, looking out onto the Louvre grounds thoughtfully. "The Council cannot know," she decides, turning her gaze back to him. "Would this man be willing to meet with me privately?"

"I think he would prefer it," Athos answers. "He is a man of the shadows. If he does this, he will not do it for glory."

At that, the corner of the Queen's mouth rises. "Then he would be one of only a few," she tells Athos. "Arrange for him to come see me tomorrow."

"He is one of a kind, in more ways than one," Athos confirms, smiling a little as well. "I will, your Majesty." He hesitates. "I must warn you, however. His manner is rather... brisk."

What does that mean? The Queen cocks her head in question. Will he not treat her like a Queen?

"He would not harm or abuse you in any way," Athos reassures, though he knows he will have to warn Lucien against being too harsh with the Queen. "But he knows very little about etiquette, and he has suffered a great deal at the hands of aristocrats."

At that, the Queen's face very nearly crumples with such great sympathy. "I shall show him kindness for his service to the King. He needn't worry."

That's... not exactly what Athos meant, but perhaps it will do. He smiles to the Queen, appreciating her kindness. "He will not be wary as much as prickly, I believe. Your Majesty will need to be patient with him."

"Of course, Athos. Of course," she says, touching the back of his hand with hers. It makes Athos smile. With that matter settled, she leans close again, voice lowered, lest anyone truly be eavesdropping. "I have one more concern I need your advice on."

Athos leans in as well, his eyes watchful as he nods, slowly. "Yes, your Majesty."

"I do not trust that Gaston will not attempt to take back the throne," she whispers. "He didn't show any regard for his brother; I doubt that he will show regard for his nephew."

"That is unlikely," Athos answers, searching her eyes. "I believe he will not rest until he has what he wants. As long as he is alive, he is a threat to you and France."

Her brow knit, the Queen sighs. "I am not sure what to do about this," she whispers. "Do you know someone who can ... " The implication is clear: someone who can deal with Gaston.

While Athos does not condone murder in general, he can see too, that there is no other way to deal with Gaston. Even imprisoned, he stays too dangerous. And after all, he does know someone who would gladly get rid of Gaston. "The man I just told you about, your Majesty He can. And he will leave no evidence behind."

Quietly and thoughtfully, the Queen takes this in. "I will talk to him about it, then. Do you mind if I tell him that you recommended him? Lest he thinks I believe him to simply be ... someone who does such things."

The Queen's concern bodes well, Athos thinks, for how she will get on with Grimaud. "I will talk to him about it, as well. You may tell him it was my idea."

With another squeeze to Athos's hand, the Queen leans back in her chair. "Thank you, Athos. I cannot begin to tell you how much your support - along with the other Musketeers' - has meant to me."

Athos squeezes back, gently. "Always, your Majesty. You have always been the voice of reason and kindness, and an ally for us at the Palace. Treville knew it, and so did all of us."

"This is the beginning of a new era," the Queen says with quiet certainty. "I want my son to be a King for all the people of France, not just the few. I shall take your advice to heart, Athos. Thank you." 

The Queen speaks with great conviction and Athos believes her. He has great hopes for this Regency. He bows his head, respectfully, and she stands, gently dismissing him. Athos stands as well, stepping back. "The Musketeer Aramis came to pay his regards,” he mentions, quietly, and the Queen gives him a sharp look, hesitating before she shakes her head. "Not at this time, Athos. Thank you." She needs to wait until things seem more settled to be open about how she feels about Aramis, it would not do to see him now.

"Your Majesty," Athos says politely, not pushing the matter. 

Aramis is still waiting for him outside, his face falling as the door closes behind Athos. "Well," he says after a beat, rallying. "Shall we ride back?" Athos smiles and clasps his shoulder. "Let's," he states, heading for the stables. 

The ride back to the Garrison is quiet, the sun still high in the sky as they make it to Paris. Athos gathers the Musketeers in the courtyard and gives a rousing speech about Treville and their new name. The speech garners much applause, from Musketeers and Parisians alike. There might just be that little sense of optimism in the city streets.

Grimaud listens from where he's perched in Athos's rooms, and gazes at him when he comes in. "The Captain has spoken,” he says, wryly, and Athos gives him an amused look. How did it go with her Majesty?"

"It went well. She did offer me the position of Minister, but was not upset when I declined." Athos sits on the bed and watches Grimaud. "I believe she will ask Aramis, instead."

"It is going as planned, then," Grimaud says, leaning back against Athos's headboard. "You are a politician, after all."

Athos arches an eyebrow at Grimaud, nudging his knee. "Twice now, you have called me a politician. You're lucky I don't vex easily," he points out, smiling.

At that, Grimaud nearly grins. "And if you did?" he asks, eyebrows raised in question and amused challenge. "What would you do, mmm?" Grinning right back, Athos makes a playful face. "Make you sleep on the carpet," he answers, though it is a feeble threat and he knows it.

“Is that the worst you can do?” Grimaud taunts, not looking very worried. In fact he looks downright smug, sitting back in the bed wearing just an open shirt and his underwear. 

"Perhaps I'll wipe the floor with you," Athos returns. "You have yet to spar with me," he points out. He widens his eyes teasingly. "Though you don't have to, if you're scared."

Grimaud gets to his feet at once, gesturing to his clothes. "And where will the battle take place?"

Laughing, Athos takes Grimaud's hand in his to tug him back into bed. "Not now," he states, amused. "Let's do this tomorrow, first thing in the morning," he vows, trying to pull Grimaud close again. "I have something I wish to discuss, tonight."

"You challenge me, then you withdraw?" Grimaud does allow himself to be pulled back to bed, though. ”What kind of cowardly behaviour is that?”

"I challenge you tomorrow," Athos corrects, still smiling. "It's growing dark outside, we can't spar now," he adds, amused by Grimaud's readiness to fight. 

Grimaud glares at him in return but he wraps a hand around the back of Athos's head, pulling him in for a kiss. Athos is happy to kiss him back, holding him close and running his fingers down his back. There are still important matters to discuss but they will wait now, as this is too good to pass up on. 

"What is it you wanted to tell me?" Grimaud asks between kisses, leaning close and tasting Athos's mouth, feeling his body heat with want.

"Later," Athos answers, uncharacteristically willing to postpone his duty for pleasure. He slips his hands under Grimaud's chemise to stroke over warm skin. It makes Grimaud grin, pleased by Athos’s willingness. 

They tumble back into bed and though he lets Grimaud roll on top of him Athos is not pliant this time, pushing and pulling back against his lover, arching his back and bucking his hips to get more of him. Lucien drives into him mercilessly yet slowly enough to make them both pant for it, Athos groaning against his shoulder. He comes with a hiss, his arms tight around Grimaud's body and his head back, eyes closed, shuddering when Grimaud follows, whispering his name. 

Athos’s eyes remain closed even as he feels Grimaud lift his head and look at him, his expression open. He’s beautiful, Grimaud thinks. So beautiful; enough to break Grimaud's heart into a million pieces. In these vulnerable moments, Grimaud knows this. He holds tight, and presses a kiss to Athos’s neck.

He gets a soft hum in answer, Athos stroking his fingers through Grimaud's clean hair with obvious pleasure, blindly placing a kiss to his temple. He likes this, the silence and the closeness that comes after, almost as much as the sex itself.

It’s a while before either of them move, Athos turning his head to kiss Grimaud's temple again. "Have you had dinner yet?," he asks, quietly.

Grimaud shakes his head. "I don't imagine there're serving wenches here who bring the food, eh?" he asks, voice low and gravelly, amused at the thought.

Grinning against his cheek, Athos answers, "you could ask Constance, if you wanted to get punched in the face," he answers, wryly. He stretches under Grimaud, tilting his head back to look at him. "I'll get us dinner. I haven't eaten either."

Shifting so that Athos can get up, Grimaud just watches him, content to stay here in the moment; it isn't, after all, as if he can help get food. And he has no doubt that the lady Musketeer would indeed punch him.

Athos gets dressed, putting his trousers, boots, chemise and doublet back on slowly, combing his hair back. He faces Grimaud for inspection and upon receiving the go-ahead, will go looking for food and return fairly quickly.

Grimaud is hardly the judge of whether Athos looks debauched, quite honestly. But he looks good; Grimaud will always think so. When Athos returns, he helps with the tray, then urges Athos back down. "Now, shall we talk of what needs to be discussed?"

Athos sits back next to Grimaud pouring wine. "Two things," he says, pushing a slice of bread and cheese onto Grimaud's plate. "I told the Queen about you.”.

Grimaud looks over at Athos, an eyebrow raised. 

"She wants her Regency to be the start of a new era," Athos continues, calmly. "That is why she renamed the Musketeers and intends to rule fairly over France, keeping her subjects's well-being in mind." He pauses, sipping from his wine. "I pointed out to her that she does not know what is truly happening in Paris and in the provinces." He watches Grimaud carefully. 

"That she does not know what it is, to live in squalor without even a roof over your head." Athos pauses to try and determine what Grimaud is thinking, how he’s taking this.. Lucien is keeping his face carefully blank however, so there is no telling. 

"She was wise enough to agree that this is a matter she knows very little about. I put it to her that if she means to take the right decisions and do right by the people, she would need to consult someone who does." He pauses, setting his glass down. "She will listen, if you wish to speak to her."

Grimaud frowns. Is he to be the voice of the poor to the Queen? How very strange. Something inside him rebels at the idea, and yet he can’t help but feel touched that Athos actually spoke to the queen about him. He can make a difference like this. A most palpable difference.

"She wishes to speak to me?" he asks, slowly. 

"Yes. Her only condition was for the High Council not to know about it," Athos says, earnestly. "Most of them are nobles, and would not see kindly to it, which is exactly why she wants another opinion on the matter."

That hardly matters to Grimaud and Athos knows that. He shrugs and bites into his bread to hide how he feels. "When am I to do this?"

"As soon as convenient," Athos answers. He's not fooled by Grimaud's casual answer, but he won't press it. "Tomorrow, if you are ready and she can see you."

Grimaud nods, his jaw tight. Will Athos insist on giving him new clothes for this, he wonders, and insist on making him bathe? ALl Athos does at the moment is smile and lean to kiss him, lightly. He knows this isn’t easy for Lucien, and he appreciates his willingness to make an effort. 

"What have you done to me, Musketeer," Grimaud mumbles against his mouth, grousing quietly. Here he is, content in the Musketeers's Garrison, planning to meet the Queen to talk about social needs. How bizarre.

Athos smiles because this is not the first time Grimaud has asked him that question and he has learned to see it for the term of endearment it is. He kisses Grimaud again and leans back to look at him. "There is another matter."

Grimaud arches a brow. For God's sake, what could it possibly be?

"Gaston," Athos answers simply. "The Queen believes France will not know peace, as long as he is alive. I agree. She asked me whether I knew someone that could solve this problem for her." He gives Lucien a pointed look.

"She's right." Gaston is petty, selfish, and impulsive; Grimaud never much liked him. "Am I to be the Queen's assassin as well?" he asks, darkly amused by all of this. "Will there be coins in my pockets for these services, I wonder?"

"Only if you want to be," Athos points out, lest Grimaud feels he has to. He arches his eyebrows, considering his lover carefully. "I have not asked, but it would seem fair."

Grimaud will find a way to bring it up, surely, though probably not gracefully. "What should I think of being recommended to the Queen for such tasks, Musketeer?"

"That I know you well and do not shy away from what you can do?" Athos answers, his hand coming to rest on Grimaud's knee. He knows who Grimaud is, and loves him still.

As strange and wonderful as that is, Grimaud thinks, it is the truth. Closing the distance, he kisses Athos, lingering there, lip to lip. It makes Athos hum, cupping Grimaud's face between his palms gently as he kisses back. "That is all I had to tell you," he says against Grimaud's lips, grinning a little.

"Well, that's a relief," Grimaud drawls. "At the least, there is nothing darker to address."

Athos grins to him, playfully. "The Queen did tell me about another issue, regarding the colour of the next dress she'll have made, but I did not recommend you for the task, this time," he taunts,  though nothing of the sort happened. He lies back down next to Grimaud, stroking through his hair and down his back.

Grimaud gives him a deadpan look even as he kisses down his body, and Athos leans up on his elbows, the very picture of innocence. "Should I have?" he inquires, seriously.

"I am quite sure the queen can pick her own frocks," Grimaud murmurs, nipping at the points of Athos's hips. It makes Athos shiver, his cock already stirring again between his legs. He reaches out to stroke his fingers through Grimaud's hair, grinning down to him. "Perhaps."

"Careful," Grimaud warns, "or I'll put  _ you  _ in a frock, Musketeer." His gaze is hot up Athos's body as he works to leave marks on his thighs. Athos snorts at the idea, not offended. His fingers tighten a little into Grimaud's hair and he hums, his legs spreading wider. What Grimaud is doing is sending shivers of pain/pleasure up his spine and he wants more, his eyes darkening.

How open Athos is in his pleasure, Grimaud thinks, how amenable. It's intoxicating. Eyes trained on Athos's face, he bites just that bit harder on sensitive flesh. It stings and Athos makes a low noise at the pain though he does not recoil, his toes curling in the tangled bedsheets.

There will be a blood blister where Grimaud bit; he licks over that before leaning up to run his teeth along the length of Athos's erection too, teasing. Athos twitches in response, a thrill going down his spine sharply. "Lucien," he says, but it's not even a warning, his legs staying spread, welcoming whatever Grimaud wants to do to him.

Letting out a low, satisfied growl, Grimaud does it again, grazing his teeth up the line of Athos's erection, a little tighter this time, not enough even to leave a redness but putting pressure there, his nails scraping Athos's balls.

This time the noise Athos makes is definitely a hiss, his fingers tightening in Grimaud' hair. It hurts a little, the drag of Grimaud's teeth and nails over very sensitive skin, making his hips jerk and his cock drip. He winces but still does not protest, his eyebrows furrowed and his eyes squeezed shut.

Abruptly, Grimaud leans away to pull his knife from his belt. He comes back to bed with it and Athos’s darkened eyes go wide. He sits up but doesn’t tell Grimaud to stop, swallowing dryly as Grimaud puts the blade to his thigh, stroking it up. Athos isn’t sure what this is now and why it’s sending hot waves of arousal down to his groin, but he trusts Grimaud enough to let him handle something so sharp so near to his cock.

Lucien is careful about it too, watching him as he keeps going, running the dull side of the blade down his erection, the metal cool against Athos's heated skin. The urge to close his legs and crawl away is strong but Athos fights it, his eyes going from Grimaud's face to the blade slipping lightly against his skin. The coolness of the knife makes him jerk a little, his breathing hitching. Athos doesn't know if he likes this yet, but it's obvious it does nothing to dampen his arousal.

He glances up and Lucien’s eyes are warm but appraising, making sure Athos is enjoying this. As it seems to be the case he glides the blade up Athos's chest, pushing him to lie down and resting the knife against his neck even as he reaches out for his cock again.

That’s how Athos ends up flat on the bed with Grimaud on top of him and a blade to his neck, his hips canted up desperately to try and push into Lucien’s hand. Eyes on Grimaud, he slowly tips his chin back, his neck stretching under the cool blade, hands gripping the sheets. Athos knows his surrender is complete like this, and the feeling of danger that comes with the motion only serves to arouse him further.

Grimaud sees that and he says nothing, though his eyes are growing very dark, his hand tightening around Athos's cock as he strokes him, the blade still pressed against his throat.

"Lucien," Athos pleads, his voice low and tight, reaching out for Grimaud's hair to pull him in and kiss him. The knife clatters to the floor; Grimaud doesn't want to risk even accidentally cutting Athos as the Musketeer rocks up into his touch, his whole body coiling tight with pleasure and the need to come. 

It’s a demanding kiss, open-mouthed and filthy, Grimaud’s hands rough on Athos’s body, feeling heated and wanton. 

Just as he can feel Athos lose control entirely, Lucien stops stroking him, stilling to draw out his pleasure and prolong the agony, feeling how Athos is beginning to tremble with need, arms and legs shaking finely against Grimaud. He presses their foreheads together, watching as Athos pants and frowns, shifting restlessly under him. 

"Wait," Grimaud nearly croons, nuzzling their cheeks together. "Wait .... " Athos groans and he turns his head to nip at Grimaud's ear but he'll wait, growing still under him. He takes deep breaths, trying to focus, trying to think about anything else but how good it will feel when Lucien finally lets him come. 

It helps that Grimaud ducks his head to bite him again, suckling on his neck hard enough to leave a mark. It’s strange, Athos vaguely thinks, how this dynamic, this power exchange works so well between them: Athos giving up control entirely and putting his steely will to compliance instead. And Grimaud too willing to rule him, ruthlessly.

Pressing a kiss to the mark he’s left, Grimaud leans up and meets Athos’s eyes. "Wait," he reminds, getting more oil to slick himself. He urges Athos to his side and Athos goes willingly, bending one leg up and pushing back against Grimaud when he feels him line up. He's still open enough that it barely hurts at all, making him throw his head back and rock his hips, seeking more.

It’s easy to just take him that way, slowly, achingly slowly, and Grimaud gasps at the tightness, the residual slick from before. He goes as slow as he can bear, burying himself deep inside Athos, using him, shamelessly and fully, for his pleasure. Athos can only hiss in response, his breathing hitching every time Grimaud pushes in just right to touch that spot inside of him that feels so good. 

Grimaud is going so slow that it is a kind of torture, Athos thinks, feeling his lover twitch with the effort of holding himself back, his cock just barely inside Athos's body for moment. He reaches back to tug at Lucien’s hair beseechingly and suddenly the dam breaks, Grimaud’s control finally snapping as he slams forward, bucking hard as he comes with an intensity that makes his head swim.

It’s not enough build up for Athos to follow but he cries out all the same, feeling Grimaud press his face to his shoulder, tingling with need as he stays buried in as deep as he can. 

"Make yourself come," Grimaud murmurs and Athos tilts his head back against Grimaud’s shoulder, wrapping his fingers around himself. He won't tease, stroking himself hard and fast and making himself come quickly, clenching tightly around Grimaud. The rush of it is incredible,  warming him from head to toe as pleasure ebbs over him.

It takes him a long time to recover and Grimaud stays close behind him as he does, wrapping an arm around his waist. Athos’s entire body is still hot with pleasure but he also feels sated and calm, as always when they do this.

He feels Grimaud settle against his back, his forehead to his skin, and reaches out to hold onto his wrist. It’s been a long day and he’s quite happy to just pull the blankets up and fall asleep with Grimaud, his eyelids heavy.


	24. Different Circles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps it is a humor that only Grimaud can appreciate, but he smirks as he rides out to where Gaston is housed. Such a cowardly, vain little man; it will be good to kill him. Grimaud's pistol is loaded, his knife sharp, his sword at the ready.

When he comes out of the Queen's quarters on the next day, Grimaud is wearing an expression he doesn't often wear; a masked kind of surprise, even a grudging admiration. He straightens the clean tunic Athos lent him and takes a slow breath.

He’s so deep in thought it even takes him a moment to notice Athos waiting for him outside, watching his face carefully. Athos is not exactly nervous about Grimaud and the Queen meeting, but it has so much potential he wouldn't want it to go wrong. 

Grimaud finally meets his eyes and comes closer, the look on his face growing more assured. No matter how unexpected a turn his future might now take, this is something he knows, and something that is his own. He walks over to Athos and shrugs just a little, which says all he needs to say without words: it is as Athos said it would be. He and the queen will meet regularly, and he will take care of Gaston. What a strange set of circumstances he finds himself in.

The look on Grimaud's face makes Athos smile faintly and he says nothing, leading the way back to the garden, not touching Grimaud though he wants to kiss him and tell him he told him so. "When are you leaving?" he asks, quietly. Gaston must be dealt with as soon as possible, he reckons.

"This afternoon," Grimaud says. He smirks just a little; Gaston will probably think that Grimaud is there to help him.

"You'll need to be careful," Athos says, quietly. "Gaston is cunning and he has surrounded himself with reliable guards." It worries Athos to let Grimaud do this alone, though he knows he cannot come along.

While Grimaud doesn't exactly scoff at Athos, he is clearly not worried. "The last time we spoke, he thought I was an ally." As far as Grimaud is concerned, he thinks he can probably kill Gaston before anyone else even starts to suspect a thing.

"He did," Athos admits. "And this is an unlikely association." 

The comment draws a small grin from Grimaud. “I will be back by nightfall," he tells Athos, making sure they are discreet as they head for the stables taking the less-trodden path behind the castle. This will only stay an unlikely association if no-one sees them together, after all. 

"I will wait for you," Athos answers, touching Grimaud's shoulder, very briefly. "Bring back a token of your kill, so the Queen has proof. Not something too ghastly, Lucien" he warns. The Queen doesn't need to see Gaston's severed head or heart.

Grimaud gives him a wry look. "She is ... " He doesn't have much of a vocabulary, really, especially for talking of women, let alone the Queen. "... quite something."

Smiling, Athos easily agrees. "She is. I have faith that her Regency will bring a better time for France." He's curious too, about what else Grimaud and the Queen talked about. "What did you tell her?"

"That people are starving, especially women, as the soldiers fight. That corrupt aristocrats are making the poor suffer for no reason except their own selfishness. That someone needs to be held accountable."

Athos nods, because all of this is true, though he suspects it wasn't pleasant to hear for the Queen. "And what did she answer?" he inquires, leaning against the wall of the stables.

With another shrug, Grimaud moves toward his horse, running a hand down his flank. "She had her brows knit up like she tasted something bad, but I wasn't going to lie to her."

"She's seeing you to hear the truth, no matter how unpleasant," Athos agrees, holding Grimaud's horse still for him. "Did you discuss wages?" he asks, curious.

"For me?" At that, Grimaud nearly smiles, though it's rather grim. He'll actually have a steady wage for the first time in his life, working for the Queen. 

Athos hums at the answer. Good. Hard work deserves a fair reward, no matter the nature of it. 

"I'll see you tonight. Do try to come back in one piece," he states, arching his eyebrows meaningfully.

"Do you doubt me, Musketeer?" Grimaud asks, his eyebrow arching as well. "I'll be there when night falls." He climbs onto his horse and gives Athos a soft gaze; he would touch him if he dared, but no sense in taking that risk.

"I do not," Athos answers, tilting his chin up. The soft look in Grimaud's eyes is nearly as good as a kiss and Athos gives him a smile, patting his horse before he steps away, watching him canter out of the palace. With a sigh, he gets his own horse and returns to the Garrison quickly, his duties for the day waiting there.

***

Perhaps it is a humor that only Grimaud can appreciate, but he smirks as he rides out to where Gaston is housed. Such a cowardly, vain little man; it will be good to kill him. Grimaud's pistol is loaded, his knife sharp, his sword at the ready.

When he gets to Gaston’s house the guards try to stop him first, but as soon as they see who he is they let him through, as expected.

Gaston is waiting for him in his chambers, pacing impatiently. They have set camp a little away from Paris, in a detestable hamlet. His chambers are small and murky, everything covered in dust. Absolutely not fit for a King, but he will have to bear it with a sneer until he can take what is rightfully his.

The news of Grimaud's return is unexpected. Gaston never liked the man (a fiend, born in the gutter) but he cannot spurn a potential ally at the moment. He orders the guards to let him in, sitting at his desk. "What news, then?" he says in lieu of greeting, his lips pursed.

And hello to you, Gaston. Grimaud can barely keep from rolling his eyes, his hand on the butt of his knife under his cloak. "The Queen is vulnerable," he says, not yet stepping closer. "What support do you have?" Best find out what he can before he dispatches the man, after all. 

Gaston's lips purse further. "About half of my army remains. I can rally more men, some Parisian nobles are displeased by the idea of a Regency. But it'll take time," he states, looking sour.

And that is time Gaston doesn't ultimately have. "You would make a horrible king," Grimaud says, nearly conversationally, nearly dismissively, as he walks closer, knife still hidden. "You are a loathsome, pathetic little man who deserves nothing as much as this."

Scowling at the sudden downpour of insults, Gaston stands up, ready to call the guards to throw Grimaud out when something deadly cold slips into his gut. Grimaud’s knife is sharp enough that it slices through the velvet and linen and into Gaston's gut where Grimaud twists it, pulling it upward, even as he braces the little man to keep him from falling.

It hurts but Gaston can't scream, gasping instead, the agony of it overwhelming. He falls against Grimaud, his eyes full of rage and contempt. He's been betrayed. He claws at Grimaud's face weakly, coughing up blood.

Grimaud doesn’t budge, taking the scratches without flinching. He stays still, glaring daggers into Gaston's eyes as he knows his knife pierces the man's heart. Then he'll let him fall. He deserves no dignity as he dies.

As Gaston lies bleeding out, Grimaud searches his room for valuables: jewels, baubles, things the man will no longer need, stuffing his pockets with them. Gaston’s signet ring is on the table, and Grimaud picks it up, deciding it would be a good proof to bring back to the Queen.

He pockets the ring and a few other things, then readies his knife and his pistol. Outside, the guards give him a quick nod and Grimaud strides past then briskly, mounting his horse and heading back to the city before they can realise something went amiss.

There's a strange comfort in doing what he did; he's used to it. It's what he knows. Simply for a different purpose this time, a good one. He will not go back to the palace this evening, instead heading first to the city center to sell a few of Gaston's things to have the money to take to poorer quarters, calling for the women and children to come take the coins.

By that time, it will be dark and he will make his way to the Garrison, leaving his horse at a nearby stable. He's as silent as he ever is when he slips inside Athos's rooms.

***

Athos had a busy day. Since the announcement that the King's Musketeers were to become the People's Musketeers, the people of Paris have started coming to the Garrison for help, wary at first and then more confident as the Captain nearly always sent a few Musketeers to investigate.

It's a lot more work than the usual, what with some Red Guards still prowling through the city on top of the usual crime, but Athos feels that they have done more for Paris in a few days than they did for weeks before, when the people didn't dare ask for help before it was almost too late.

He's sitting at his desk, writing a letter about a particularly dishonest blacksmith. He turns as he hears the door click back shut, his eyes intent. Apart from a scratch on his cheek, Grimaud seems unharmed and he smiles, tentatively.

Setting his cloak aside on a chair, Grimaud comes to the desk and lets Gaston's ring spin there. "It's done," he says, throwing himself back in the chair across from him. He feels nothing but satisfaction about it, and it shows. 

Athos takes the ring to examine it and then sets it back on the desk with a nod. "Any trouble?" he inquires, taking Grimaud's chin in his hand gently to look at the scratch on his face. It's not deep, it won't scar.

"He clawed like a weak woman," Grimaud says with a shake of his head, closing one eye as Athos leans in to kiss his cheek, next to the scratch. It’s an oddly sweet gesture, and Grimaud almost smiles. “He said he had some support,” he adds. 

"Some of his army still follows him,” Athos ponders. “They'll probably disband once they learn he was killed." 

"Some of them are weak," Grimaud agrees. "But some will still try to do what they want to do." He pauses and then goes on with what he was thinking, "I think we should give them what they want. A leader, who'll lead them into the ground."

Athods nods, looking thoughtful as he considers Grimaud carefully. "And who would play that part?" he inquires, though he already knows the answer. It's not a bad idea but, as always with Grimaud, it is dangerous.

"You can't do it, and neither can the new Minister," Grimaud says, because he knows Athos is aware he's the only one who can. "That limits our choices, doesn't it Captain."

Athos arches an eyebrow at Grimaud, but he has to admit that he is right. "It'd be risky," he says, though they both know he won't object to Grimaud doing this, not truly. "You'll need to make sure no one suspects you for Gaston. And you'll need a high feat to be accepted as their new leader."

Ah, see, Grimaud has thought of that. He gazes back at Athos and lifts his chin a bit. "Like killing the captain of the Musketeers, you mean."

Athos expected something of the sort so he merely tilts his head in agreement. "Like killing the Captain of the Musketeers," he confirms, his lips curving up a little. "In duel, for maximum effect." Now, he's actually smiling. "Porthos is going to cry at my funeral again."

"Again?" Grimaud asks, curious about this bit in particular.

Athos grins. "We did this once already. d'Artagnan pretended to kill me to reveal the Cardinal's treachery." And Anne's, but Grimaud doesn't need to know that. "It worked. Treville had some very nice things to say at my funeral. Aramis called me handsome. Porthos cried."

To his credit Grimaud doesn't roll his eyes, though he does think this is a ridiculous story. What a life Athos has led. "The sooner we do this, the better”, he says. “Tell the others, but only those who need to know.”

Athos agrees, aware that the less people know about this, the best chance they have to keep it a secret. "Aramis needs to know. Some of the Musketeers. The Queen as well, as she is still directly at risk. We can plan tomorrow, and you can defeat me in a duel the day after that. We have yet to spar," he reminds, smiling again. "Perhaps it will be good training."

"When it is guaranteed that I'll win?" That makes Grimaud nearly laugh. "I see."

"Yes. And if you do win when we spar, know that I let you." Athos bites down a grin. "For training purposes, you see." He leans in for a gentle kiss, cupping Grimaud's cheek. "Dinner?" he offers, quietly.

Turning his head, Grimaud kisses Athos's palm. Only now does he realize how this might be quite difficult, even if it is only play-acting. Seeing Athos hurt does not appeal to him. Dinner, though, yes. And a night spent in Athos's bed, culminating in quiet gasps and sighs.

***

The next day, Athos goes to the palace to talk to the Queen; it wouldn't do for Grimaud to be seen there. While he's there, Grimaud goes to the streets, listening and planting seeds.

"Is this a good idea?" Aramis asks, watching Athos with his brows furrowed. "We need to forestall any uprising, but is this the best way?"

"Do you have a better one?" Athos returns, arching his eyebrows. He would consider something less risky if it were just as effective, but he can't think of a better way. It is dangerous for everyone involved and Athos in particular, but they need to get rid of this threat for the Regency, and fast. 

“I don't,” Aramis answers, sighing before he rallies. “Surely this time, I get to be the one to speak at your funeral, right?"

"There may not be time for a funeral. Grimaud will strike fast." Athos smiles. "But if there is, you may. At any rate I won’t ask Porthos, he'll call me rugged again," he adds pointedly.

"And you prefer handsome."

"You know how vain I am," Athos confirms, wryly. That makes Aramis smile more widely. He takes a deep breath, then, sobering. "If you trust Grimaud, then I do. We should alert the Queen."

"I trust him with my life," Athos confirms. Quite literally, this time. He nods, following Aramis towards the royal chambers. He has Gaston's signet ring with him, to show the Queen.

It is small but damning in the Queen’s cupped palms, and Athos can see how pale she is as she hands it back, sitting down carefully. She did ask for this still, and now she needs to shoulder the responsibility. "That was very fast," she tells them and Athos tilts his head, agreeing. 

The Queen’s shock is good, in his opinion. A monarch needs to be able to take such harsh decisions when needed, but not without the horror that befits them. "Grimaud is efficient," he confirms. He's seen it for himself, and many times. 

"There are more pressing matters to attend, your Majesty. Others who may take Gaston's place," Aramis tells her in a quiet, almost intimate tone. "We must tamp down on those who would. There is a plan that can be implemented."

"A plan?" she asks, looking between the both of them.

There is a level of understanding between the Queen and Aramis that did not exist before and Athos has to bite down a smile. He explains their plan in detail and with an honest assessment of exactly how dangerous it is, for Grimaud, for himself, and for Paris since there will be an army marching upon the city at some point, though only to fall into their trap.

"Is there no other way?" Anne asks when he is done. "Can we not negotiate with these people?"

"Perhaps we could in a few years," Aramis tells her gently. "As of now, you are viewed as ... vulnerable."

The Queen looks to Athos. "And you're sure of this?"

"It is a dangerous plan, your Majesty," Athos answers, earnestly. He won't lie to her, not about this and not about anything else. "But if we succeed - and we stand a good chance of succeeding - it will eradicate this threat for good. And that could save us and the people of Paris a lot of trouble in the next few months."

Looking troubled, the Queen watches them carefully. "What of those who saw Grimaud come here yesterday?" she asks. "Will that be a problem?" There are nosy people all over the place, after all.

"I will deal with any who might say something," Aramis assures her. "I will talk to them." Convince them that they saw someone else, not Grimaud. It shouldn't be too hard, as Grimaud being at the Palace is unlikely to start with.

The Queen, lips pursed, nods, looking worried. “Very well. I will await word of your plan’s results, then.” She knows that such things wouldn't have been brought to the King's attention while he was alive and for that, she's grateful, though this hardly sits well with her. "Thank you, to you both, for what you do for France."

Aramis gives her a smile as Athos bows deeply. "Word will be sent, your Majesty," Athos confirms, standing up when they are dismissed. He follows Aramis outside. 

"Tomorrow, then?" Aramis asks in a low voice.

"Tomorrow," Athos agrees, giving Aramis a small smile. "I will work out the details with Grimaud and let you know where to meet us. It will have to be a public duel, near the battlefield." Athos's reputation is going to suffer from this, at least momentarily, but he does not care.

Reaching over, Aramis squeezes his arm. He knows Athos will tell d'Artagnan and Porthos, and give them their roles. Then the play will begin. It shall be an interesting few days, at least. "Here we go again, my friend," he says.

Athos smiles, clasping Aramis's shoulder in return. "Tell me if Porthos cries again," he requires fondly, smiling to Aramis before he steps away. It will be a long day, first organizing things at the Garrison and telling Porthos and d'Artagnan what is going to happen, and then riding out to meet Grimaud for their rehearsal of the duel.


	25. A Plan is Hatched

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you wish to know of the story of this?" Grimaud asks of the necklace, quietly. Athos nods. 
> 
> "There was one woman," Grimaud says, eyes on the stone as he speaks, "who cared for me when my mother couldn't, after she tried to drown me. She took me in. She gave me this when I was old enough not to choke on it. To remember - " and he says this almost wryly "- that not all people are bad."
> 
> Athos cups Grimaud's face with both hands, leaning in to kiss the scar on his brow gently, then the one on his cheekbone, stroking his thumbs along his jaw. "I am honored that you trust me with it," he says, quietly. 

Outside his hovel Grimaud twirls his sword, looking at Athos with a small, almost grim smile. "So I am to practice trying to kill you again, eh, Musketeer?" he teases, his voice low.

"Succeeding, this time," Athos points out, wryly. Grimaud failed last time, but he thinks they'll both agree it was a blessing now. "Or at least pretending to." He brought two swords, much duller than their usual ones, though they do look sharp. And two skins of pig's blood, for maximum effect. 

"Right then," Grimaud agrees, moving into position. This plan doesn’t sit entirely well with him, but it is the best plan he can think of, and he won’t back down now. "The more realistic the better. I should approach you from behind, then," and he moves in that direction. "And threaten you."

Athos moves into position as well, holding the dull sword up. He lets Grimaud step behind him, turning his head to follow him with his eyes. "You could insult the Musketeers. Threaten the Queen. Then I would whirl around, full of righteous fury."

"At which I meet your blade with mine." Grimaud steps back, letting Athos turn and their swords clang together. "The Musketeers are nothing,” he states, not sounding particularly convincing. “Lackies for the baby king, and so on. At which point, you should take umbrage and charge forward, which will push me back on the defensive." He steps back as such, and Athos follows slowly, making sure his movements are easy to predict. 

"Good. Then I charge forward, aiming for the heart-" And when Athos turns just right, Grimaud’s sword will slide between his arm and his chest, looking, for all the world, like he was stabbed in the heart.

Nodding, Athos moves back into position. It will look convincing, he thinks, especially with the blood. He turns back around. "Let's do it again. Slow once more, and then fast," he requests. 

Complying, Grimaud taps the point of his sword against Athos's back. "Captain of the Musketeers," he deadpans. "Supporter of the Queen, supposed protector of all of Paris's people, and what have you."

Athos snorts but his eyes are serious, focused on the task at hand. He whirls around, their swords clashing. "How dare you?" he asks, wryly, and charges forward to push Grimaud back. Then it's easy to attack until Grimaud finds a weakness in his guard and strikes back. He side-steps smoothly and the blade slips under his arm. He thinks it scratches his underarm, but he won't say anything about it. It hardly matters. 

"Now I've got you," Grimaud says, playing at driving the blade home as he steps close, arm going around Athos's waist. "And down you go."

"And down I go," Athos confirms, wrapping his arms around Grimaud's shoulders and leaning in to kiss him. He smiles into it. "One last time, faster. Come on."

Grimaud agrees, lightly pushing Athos away to do it all again. He waits for Athos to turn, accosts him from behind, is driven backwards and then forward, his sword sliding against the leather of his lover's doublet. "Again?"

"No," Athos answers. They know what they have to do, it's hardly difficult to remember. He steps aside and throws his sword into the grass, raising his fists with a grin. "Let's spar."

"Spar like this?" Grimaud is momentarily caught off-guard. He didn't expect fisticuffs but he grins, only a little sinister, and gestures. Have at him, Captain. 

Truth is, Athos is in the mood for a good grapple. He knows he won't see Grimaud for a couple of days if their plan goes well, and he means to make the most of this afternoon. Besides, "you said I don't fight dirty enough," he points out, stepping closer carefully. He watches Grimaud for a second and side-steps to strike, not very hard, at his chin.

Ducking out of the way, Grimaud slaps at his hand, pushing it away from his face, trying to push him off-balance. "You don't. You fight nice," he notes, reaching up with his other hand to shove Athos even harder, though not hard enough to send him tumbling. "Push. Shove. Hit the delicate bits," he says, smirking as he raises a boot toward Athos's ass.

"I fight nice because it's you," Athos corrects, stepping back. He arches an eyebrow at Grimaud. "Hit my delicate bits and you won't get to see them for a while." He smoothly avoids a kick and pushes Grimaud back with his shoulder.

"Oh, I'll see them," Grimaud cracks. "Might have a few ways of making them feel better, too." Another smirk and he catches Athos's arm, twisting it just enough that it curls behind his back.

Athos snorts even as he tries to free his arm, his eyebrows furrowing. He manages after a few seconds, but he suspects that’s only because Grimaud let him. He still pushes back, using his feet to try to make Grimaud his balance. He has the advantage of height, but they are both equally strong. Grimaud shoves him away again. "Come at me dirty," he goads. "I want to see it."

Smirking at the taunt, Athos steps closer again. This time he feigns meaning to hit Grimaud in the face, ducking at the last time to tackle him at the waist instead, hard enough to send them both rolling down to the grassy ground.

“And that's dirty?" Grimaud asks when he gets his breath back, chuckling a little, wrapping his legs around Athos's waist to make it hard for him to move. 

With a grin, Athos nuzzles Grimaud's cheek. He doesn't try to free himself, his hips coming down to rest against Grimaud's, warm and heavy. "I got you, didn't I?" he points out, amused. 

"Not even gonna pull my hair?" Grimaud pushes, and that's what he does, fisting his hand in Athos's hair and urging his head back. It makes Athos hum and shiver, baring his throat to ease the sting. 

"I thought you might enjoy that too much.” He's enjoying it himself, after all. There is a small bruise at the base of his neck, bitten there by Grimaud a few days before, usually hidden by his collar. Under it rests the necklace with the stone Gimaud gave Athos.

Ah, Athos knows Grimaud too well by now. He leans up, skimming his mouth against the column of Athos's neck before digging his teeth in, sucking another mark into the tender skin. Athos jerks, his hips rocking against Grimaud's slowly.

He can feel Grimaud’s fingers gloss over the stone around his neck and reaches out in response to cup his jaw, thumb stroking over his cheekbone. 

“Do you wish to know of the story of this?" Grimaud asks of the necklace, quietly. Athos nods. 

"There was one woman," Grimaud says, eyes on the stone as he speaks, "who cared for me when my mother couldn't, after she tried to drown me. She took me in. She gave me this when I was old enough not to choke on it. To remember - " and he says this almost wryly "- that not all people are bad."

Athos cups Grimaud's face with both hands, leaning in to kiss the scar on his brow gently, then the one on his cheekbone, stroking his thumbs along his jaw. "I am honored that you trust me with it," he says, quietly. 

This is the closest Grimaud could get to making a declaration of love and Athos knows it, his eyes soft as Lucien touches the stone once more, then tugs his head to the side and kisses down his neck. It feels nice and Athos presses into it, rocking their hips together again, his grip on Grimaud’s shoulders tightening.

They should go inside, Grimaud thinks, lest someone ride by. But Athos is too alluring to resist when he’s like this, and the likelihood of anyone crossing the village is fairly low. He reaches between them, tugging at the laces of Athos's trousers and slipping his hand inside.

His touch draws a gasp from Athos and he leans into it, canting his hips eagerly. He turns his head to meet Grimaud's mouth with his own, kissing him slowly, groaning at the unmistakable possessiveness in Grimaud's touch. The way Grimaud cups his erection, squeezing it, and nips at his mouth, like Athos is  _ his _ . 

It makes Athos grin and try to kiss him deeper despite the nipping, reaching for Grimaud's fly as well, rubbing him through the fabric of his trousers as he unlaces them. But before he can really get anywhere Grimaud pushes his hand away, meaning to focus on Athos alone. 

He teases and strokes Athos steadily, watching his eyes darken and his cheeks redden with pleasure, Athos’s hips jerking into his touch. He closes his eyes and lets Grimaud bring him right to the edge and then, as he knows so well how to do now, stop. Athos hisses in return, bucking fruitlessly against Grimaud and cursing him all the way back to the village when Lucien tugs him upright and into the hovel, pushing him back down on their bed.

He ends up on his back again, his legs spread wide around Grimaud's hips, his hands braced against the wall at the head of the bed. He feels exposed under Grimaud’s hot, dark gaze, but he doesn’t look away, even as a flush spreads from his face down to his chest. 

Grimaud goes slowly, bracing himself on the bed, each thrust deep and careful. It makes Athos tilt his head back and push into it, his arms cording and his hips lifting from the bed needfully. Heat flares in the pit of Grimaud’s stomach and he growls low in his throat, schooling his patience, making sure that he's milking all of the pleasure that he can out of this. 

He goes faster as he feels Athos draw close, then slows, teasing, his cock just barely inside until he feels his lover come down. It makes Athos groan and buck under him, tugging on his hair and biting into his shoulder, his thighs squeezing around his ribs. His eyes are dark as they meet Grimaud's and he pants, his lips parted. This is a terrible tease but he will suffer through it, hissing when Grimaud starts moving slowly again, his eyes rolling back as he lifts his chin, baring his throat.

It’s such an invitation Grimaud just has to reach for it, his hand closing around Athos’s neck. He doesn’t squeeze, just holding, letting Athos feel that his hand is there. He can feel Athos swallow dryly under his grip, his eyes dark slits as he watches his lover, his lips parting.

Grimaud’s patience snaps like a thread pulled too taut for too long and his thrusts turn vicious, hard and jarring. Athos groans and welcomes it, his hips canting up eagerly. "Lucien," he moans, his voice low and breathless.

"What do you want, Athos?" Grimaud asks, his voice graveled and low, liking how he can feel Athos pant under his hand. "Tell me." 

"Don't stop," Athos answers, watching Grimaud through his lashes. His thighs tighten around Grimaud's ribs. "Don't stop," he repeats, whispering, "please."

Urging his thighs wider apart Grimaud complies, going hard enough that his hips slap against Athos's ass. His climax is racing up on him and he does nothing to stop it, watching Athos writhe and groan under him. 

It's an uncomfortable position to be in for Athos, his thighs held too widely spread for comfort. It's shameful too, and makes it difficult to get any kind of traction over what is happening, which is most likely what Grimaud intends. Still, Athos is getting what he wants so he doesn't complain, groaning and tugging on Grimaud's hair. He comes with a gasp and a drawn-out moan, clenching tightly around Grimaud as he makes a mess of both of them, his cock untouched.

He's beautiful like this, Grimaud thinks, wanton and helpless against the pleasure. He comes with a quiet sigh and then grows still, letting the pleasure edge away slowly as he breathes deeply. He eventually leans forward, though, to press soft kisses along Athos's jaw.

How he loves him.

It takes Athos a while to come down from the high of it, his eyes closed as he pants quietly. He shifts as he feels Grimaud's lips against his jaw, gently breaking free so that he may put his legs in a more comfortable position. He hums and turns his head to kiss Grimaud on the mouth, his hands stroking up his back.

It is so very quiet out here in the forest that the only sound is the cracking of the fire, the hiss of the wick of the candle, and their breathing. Grimaud kisses Athos back, staying buried as long as he can in the heat of his body. When they are apart, he will miss Athos.

"When are we to perform our charade?" Grimaud asks after a while, voice quiet and still gravelly.

"Tomorrow," Athos answers quietly, his lips brushing against Grimaud's temple. "Once you've offered to take the lead of what remains of Gaston's army. They'll question your authority and you'll defeat me to prove yourself."

Grimaud sighs. It’s a great deal of deception, and while he has often been malevolent, he's not been one for sustained lies. "I shall leave at dawn, then," he says, combing through Athos's hair and urging his head back so they may gaze at each other in the firelight.

"Yes," Athos agrees, meeting Grimaud's eyes. He smiles, a small, fond smile, his hands reaching up to stroke Grimaud's cheeks and jaw, resting on the nape of his neck.

"It may be days before I see you again, Musketeer," Grimaud murmurs. Yes, he shall miss him, terribly. He could berate himself for being weak, but why? It is simply the truth.

"It may. I will have to stay hidden until this charade is over." Athos can tell what Grimaud feels and he'll voice it for the both of them, his thumb stroking over Grimaud's stubbly jaw. "I will miss you."

Hand slipping to cup Athos's cheek, Grimaud rubs his thumb along his lower lip. He still cannot say such things; they simply are beyond him. But his expression may once again give him away. "If you need to reach me, tell one of your Musketeers to find me."

Athos's lips part under the touch and he smiles, tilting his head in agreement. "I will," he whispers, reassuringly. He doesn't think he'll need to, though. It will most likely be boring, pretending to be dead.

Eventually, Grimaud falls asleep with Athos in the small bed, comfortable and warm. As the sun starts peeking through the trees, he gets up, dressing for his grand deception. Athos leans up on an elbow to watch him, his ass twinging when he sits. How ironic, he thinks, that he'll feel what they did the day before even as Grimaud pretends to kill him. He gets dressed as well, slowly, sitting down for a quick breakfast at Grimaud's small table.

There isn't much to eat: some greens, some dried meat, some bread. When Grimaud is ready, he pulls Athos close and kisses him deeply. "I will see you soon, Musketeer."

“You will. Be careful," Athos answers quietly, his tone serious enough for Grimaud not to scoff at the words outright. 

Grimaud nods, not dismissing those words. He is always careful. He turns, getting onto his horse and galloping back toward the rebel camp, his jaw set. He must be ready for all that the day holds for him.

Athos watches him leave and sets out to return to the Garrison. He needs to make sure everybody is ready and knows which parts they will play in this masquerade. He's on time at the location they agreed on, following the rebels's tracks with a group of Musketeers, his sword drawn.

"Ah ... there he is," Grimaud all but sneers, pacing in front of the small group of the most important fighters he could discern. Aristocrats are so very lazy; he couldn't even get them all to come. Breaking into a run, as planned, he presses the point of his sword to the leather at the back of Athos's doublet.

Athos whirls around as they rehearsed, clashing his sword against Grimaud's. His eyes blaze as he recognises him, a good enough pretence of anger. "It's you," he says, coolly, his eyes narrowing. It's difficult not to look fond gazing at Grimaud but he manages well-enough, contempt clear on his face.

"The captain of the Musketeers," Grimaud taunts, slashing at Athos's blade. "The protector of the Spanish Queen!" This all feels off and strange but still he will do it. It must be done, after all.

"The Queen has done more for France than any of you ever will," Athos snarls in response, slashing his sword against Grimaud's again. He dodges the attack, scowling. "Is that the best you can do?"

"And what, exactly, has she done?" Grimaud asks in a snarl, lunging forward, even if his sword is low, easily batted away. "Aside from rearing a son who's only half-French?"

"This is treasonous speech," Athos accuses, parrying and counter-attacking, making sure Grimaud can dodge. He positions himself in the way they talked about and attacks again, as planned. "You will hang for this."

"What the monarchy is doing is treason!" And Grimaud lunges forward after rocking back on his heels, jabbing his blade forward away from the onlookers, between Athos's arm and ribs. "Long live France!" 

From then on everything goes very fast. Grimaud's sword slices right through the fragile skin of pig's blood concealed under Athos's doublet, making it seem like he was seriously wounded. It also slices through his flank, along a rib, enough to hurt though he doesn't think it's very deep. 

He falls immediately and the Musketeers rush around him, some pursuing the rebels and others rounding on Athos, hiding him from sight. Porthos roars as he takes Athos's limp body in his arms, his hands bloody, holding him close to conceal the fact that he's still breathing. "He's killed the captain!” Porthos shouts, very convincingly. “Someone get him!"

Grimaud steps back and makes a run for it, urging his followers away when the Musketeers start to attack them, though they only give chase for a few minutes. He can hear the rebellious aristocrats murmur around him as they ride back, watching him admiratively. He has proven himself as the leader of the rebellion, it seems. 

Back at the camp, the tale of his act makes the rounds quickly. The aristocrats who hadn't deigned to go with him now suddenly want his ear, his elbow, anything as they feel that they can now surely march on Paris and take it over.

"Well, that was excitin'," Porthos breathes out after a while, nudging Athos a little. 

"Start crying, I'm getting offended," Athos answers, making sure all the rebels are gone before he lifts his head. “Did it work?” He sits up, hissing a little as he reaches for his ribs. 

“Seems like it,” Porthos answers, his eyebrows furrowing. “Are you well?”

"I think I'll need a few stitches, if Aramis can spare the time," Athos answers, grimacing. “It’s not too deep, though.” He gets up and heads to the carriage that will bring him to the small village he'll hide at, using a discreet path.

Everything went according to plan, it seems. Hopefully, the wound doesn't get infected. Hopefully.


	26. Running a Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Musketeer," Grimaud says with a quiet fierceness. "You are not allowed to die. Do you understand?" The words make Athos smile, despite the concern on Grimaud’s face.

Athos's comment about needing stitches draws Porthos's attention and he sends a young Musketeer to get Aramis immediately. In the meantime they do their best to clean the wound with water. It was exposed to pig's blood for a while though and the skin is red and swollen around the cut  already. 

It makes Aramis frown as soon as he sees it, guiding Athos to sit down on a stool. 

"Just a flesh wound," Athos defends and Aramis sighs, shedding his doublet to roll up his sleeves and moving closer to take a look. 

"It's infected," Aramis points out, worry obvious on his face. And so close to Athos's heart, too. 

"That would explain the pain," Athos agrees, conversationally, his eyebrows arching when Aramis doesn’t smile and instead turns to Porthos quickly. "Get wine. Or brandy. Whatever you can find that's strong." With a frown Porthos nods, stepping out to get what he needs from the villagers.

"How was the chase for Grimaud and the rebels?" Athos asks, his tone calm. He trusts that Aramis will fix this for him. 

"As fruitless as it should be going at the moment," Aramis answers, pulling some linen from his bag as well as checking his tools; it's been a while since he's used them. "We will await word and then move in." Porthos returns with a bottle and Aramis takes it, looking at Athos. "Do you wish to be awake for this?"

"Yes," Athos confirms, steadily. He knows this will hurt but with the risky plan currently at hand, he can't afford to be unconscious if something happens.

"Tell Grimaud to be more accurate next time," Aramis sighs, and he waits until Athos has taken a good drink before he lets the liquor flood into and over the wound.

"He barely nicked me," Athos defends, protective of his lover even in this. He won't tell Grimaud about this, if he can help it. What purpose would it serve, apart from making him feel bad? He hisses and grips the edge of the table, the burn of the alcohol piercing him to the core.

"This is more than a nick," Aramis replies, dabbing at the cut now with clean linens. It is most definitely infected. He had every reason to be worried, and presses a hand to Athos's forehead. "You are warm," he says, as Porthos sits close, looking concerned.

Athos does feel a little dizzy but that might be the pain, he reasons. Or perhaps he is indeed running a fever. That's not unusual, with infection. "Do I need stitches?" he inquires, calmly.

"Not until I know the wound is clean. Did you use pig's blood?" Athos nods and Aramis stands upright, his hands on his hips. "Athos,” he states, reproachfully. “Stay still. Pour more on it in a few hours. I will come back after the evening bell."

With Porthos’s help Athos obeys, leaning back on the bed and biding his time until Aramis deems him fit to be stitched. Despite Porthos’s steady care the infection doesn't get any better still,  and when the evening bell rings Athos is damp with sweat and the wound is swollen.

By the time Aramis comes back, Porthos is a thundercloud of worry. They have to go to Athos's funeral now, but how can they possibly leave their friend's side when he's like this?

"Infected," Aramis confirms, leaning down to look closely at the wound. It's now a matter of whether Athos can fight off the infection or not. "Let's keep him warm and see if he can sweat it out," he decides, helping Porthos to gather blankets, bundling Athos in them. "Make sure he drinks, soup if possible," he says to the village woman who will tend to Athos while they are away, handing her a coin. "And no one but us is to go in or out."

She nods solemnly and Aramis all but pushes Porthos out the door; they have a facade to maintain. 

Athos gives them a nod as they leave, looking dazed though his eyes are attentive enough. He feels too cold and too hot at the same time but doesn’t protest the blankets, leaning back against a pillow. This is nothing, he thinks. He’s suffered far worse.

The woman brings him soup and he manages to drink most of it even if he's not very hungry, feeling chilled and damp with sweat, his skin hot and itchy. His teeth start chattering at some point, the pain in his side a sharp ache. He dozes off and has unpleasant, nonsensical dreams, waking up every few minutes.

***

The funeral is a quiet affair. 

Aramis can't help but think of Treville and it - as well as concern for Athos - renders him properly solemn. Then they must drink at the tavern, in memory of Athos.

From a distance, Grimaud and his supposed allies watch them. Grimaud scowls and smirks as is expected, wondering why Porthos's face looks as drawn as it does; it isn't play-acting, that much he knows. He cannot do more, though, leaving the sign he said he would for Aramis before he leads the way back to the camp.

It is after midnight when Porthos can go back to the village, immediately moving to peer into Athos's face in the candlelight. "You must rally," he tells his friend. "You must rally to see the ruse successful, Athos."

Athos is awake but disoriented and his friend's face almost seems to float in the candlelight. He  hums at the words, his teeth chattering. This would be a pretty stupid way to die, Atho thinks. And he can't even imagine what it would do to Grimaud.

Unfortunately, infection isn't so easy to fight and morning finds Athos trembling and weak, the wound fully infected by then. He has periods of lucidity and others in which he seems to be dreaming awake, his eyes dark and feverish.

Different faces float in front of him: d'Artagnan, Constance, Aramis, Porthos. Constance scolds him for being reckless and Porthos just frowns at him. They wash him in a salt bath, trying to pull the poison from the wound and Athos sits in lukewarm water with his head against the edge of the tub, his body limp and goosebumps raising his skin everywhere. 

He looks at his friends with vague, dark eyes, managing to say a few words if he is asked questions. They all look increasingly worried, he notices, and it's a long day of half-delirious dreams and shivering. When the evening comes, there seems to be little amelioration to his condition. He overhears Aramis state that if the fever doesn't break by morning, his chances of recovery are small.

There's talk of the "other" too, and whether he is to be informed. Finally, it's Porthos who's sent out with a note and in the dark of night, a candle moves close. Grimaud's face jerks Athos back into a state of semi-lucidity and his eyes focus a little, narrowing. 

"Musketeer," Grimaud says with a quiet fierceness. "You are not allowed to die. Do you understand?" The words make Athos smile, despite the concern on Grimaud’s face. 

"If you die," Grimaud vows. "I shall follow you wherever you have gone and drag you down to hell with me." For there is no doubt, really, that he will be going to Hell and that Athos will accompany him. Surely that works as impetus, doesn't it? Grimaud cups Athos’s sweaty cheek in his hand, leaning down to press their foreheads together as if he can will his lover better.

Athos hums weakly in agreement. He hasn't considered what will happen after his death, but he thinks that perhaps hell wouldn't be so terrible after all, if he gets to stay with Grimaud. He leans into the touch, Grimaud's hand cool on his fevered skin. He can't really process Grimaud's words beyond basic understanding, but he knows who this is and what he wants to say. 

"Lucien," he murmurs, his palm coming to rest on Grimaud's arm.

“Athos," Grimaud replies. "Fight," he whispers. Fight the sickness. Push it out.

Humming quietly, Athos nods against Grimaud's forehead. He's trying, really. But this isn't what he meant to say. "I love you," he answers, instead. If this is the last time he sees Grimaud in this world, he means to make it clear.

There's a growl in response: Grimaud wants to hear that Athos is getting better, not that he's feeling emotional. "Tell me that when you're well," he grits out, his throat feeling clogged and rough. Sitting back, he gazes at Athos, hand still holding his cheek.

Athos smiles at that answer, watching Grimaud with bright dark eyes. As expected, in truth. "Will you stay for a while?" he asks, quietly. He thinks about the plan, and how important it is. "If you can," he adds, turning his head to press his cheek to Grimaud's hand.

"I can stay for a while," Grimaud promises. As long as he's back by dawn, it should be all right; the  plan will be safe. "Will you drink something? Or I can give you another one of those salt baths the others spoke of."

Another salt bath might do Athos good but he doesn't want to move at the moment. He tugs on Grimaud's sleeve, arching his eyebrows. "A kiss," he requests, quietly. "I'm not contagious," he adds, in case Grimaud worries. Which he probably doesn't, considering. The disorderly train of thought makes Athos frown.

"Will it make you feel better?" Grimaud asks, amused despite his concern. "Is that what you have been needing all this time, Athos?" He doesn't wait for an answer, leaning in to press their lips together. Athos smiles and kisses back, his hand coming to rest on the nape of Grimaud's neck. His skin is too hot to the touch but his kisses are firm and intent, enjoying this while he can.

"If I have someone run the water, will you let me bathe you?" Grimaud asks after a while, the words whispered between them.

Athos shrugs, helplessly. Why not? If Grimaud wants to do this, he has no reason to refuse. But first he'll tilt his chin up for another slow kiss, his eyes falling shut.

"Fever hasn't dampened that, has it?" Grimaud says dryly, pleased nonetheless. He lets go of Athos and wakes Porthos unashamedly to draw and heat water, soon helping Athos into the  bath, keeping everyone out as he sits aside, urging Athos to relax while he washes him.

The bandage on Athos’s side is bloody again and will need to be changed, the wound stinging and aching sharply as he sits in the salt water. He hisses but doesn't complain, watching Grimaud move with too-bright eyes.

The cut makes Grimaud's teeth sit on edge. He did this, didn't he? He will never forgive himself. He dabs at the wound and at other parts of Athos, gently and carefully.

"Don't," Athos tells him, quietly, watching the tightness in Grimaud’s jaw. "This is not your fault." He meets Grimaud's eyes and arches his eyebrows, expressively. This was a risk they agreed to take together, and bad luck. 

Grimaud sighs, reaching up to cup Athos's cheek again. "You must get well," he pleads. That's it, at the heart of it. Nothing more, nor less.

"I will," Athos says, his head lolling back against the edge of the bath and into Grimaud's touch. "I promise," he adds, because he doesn't want Grimaud to worry. And Athos keeps his promises.

For a moment, seeing Athos like this makes Grimaud's chest nearly unbearably tight. He finishes washing him, drying him and easing him back into bed with a new bandage. He covers him, whispering, "rest."

Relaxing on the bed, Athos feels heavy and hot, his energy entirely sapped by his fever. He kisses Grimaud’s shoulder and grips his shirt to keep him near.

Such is the Musketeer's hold on Grimaud's heart that he stays close, even as Athos sleeps, dabbing at his forehead, feeling for a break in the fever. Athos sleeps with his hand on  Grimaud's chest and his face turned towards him. His skin stays too hot to the touch all night, his eyes moving quickly behind his eyelids though he doesn't wake up. 

His grip is limp when Grimaud finally steps away, dawn beginning to pierce through the clouds. He rides back to the camp as discreetly as he can, taking with him the tight worry of watching Athos sweat and shift all night, fighting infection. He would pray, if he thought it would do any good. As it is, he can only wait. 

The fever finally breaks mid-morning, slowly receding to leave Athos sleep more peacefully, sweat drying on his skin. Aramis crosses himself as he finds this, breathing more easily. He tells Constance that Athos seems to be out of the woods. "Love is a powerful force," he notes, not for the first time.

Constance is there with soup when Athos wakes up, his head heavy and his side aching. He fe els at once that he is better still, his mind clearer. 

"You gave us a scare, you know," Constance says and Athos sits up carefully, giving her a small smile. "I did not intend to." He reaches out for the bowl of soup, sipping eagerly. He's hungry, he realizes, and thirsty.

Constance sits with him as he eats slowly, not meaning to upset his stomach. "You had a visitor last night," she reminds him. 

"Grimaud," he confirms, quietly. He remembers, even if it is hazy: the kisses, the bath, Grimaud's kindness and worry. "I need to send him word that I am better," he adds, leaning back on his pillows. "Would you bring me ink and paper?"

"Of course," she answers, standing up to brush off her apron. "Keep eating," she tells him pointedly  and she will disappear for a few minutes in order to return with what Athos needs.

Athos nods seriously, but his eyes are amused. He'll finish his soup and bread, setting the bowl aside and sitting up so he can write. He takes the paper and quill from Constance, writes a few words, lets them dry, and then folds the letter in two. "Thank you," he says, his eyes soft.

All Constance asks as she stands, her hand on Athos's shoulder is, "and he is a good man?"

" He is now," Athos answers, meaningfully. Grimaud was not always so and in some ways, perhaps he will never be. But he is good to Athos in all the ways that matter. He smiles, looking up to Constance. "Don't tell him I said that. He'd snarl at you."

"That seems fitting," she teases. Then she'll leave Athos to rest, arranging to get the note to the rebel camp.

***

Grimaud reads the letter in his tent, keeping the look on his face neutral. 

_ My promise is kept. _

Funny how four words can take such a weight off your heart, he thinks. He growls, energized. "It's time!" he declares. “Ready yourselves. We strike the Garrison, while they are still mourning their leader."

Grimaud’s new allies don’t suspect anything and he is able to lead them right into the trap the Musketeers prepared. Gunshots start at once, Grimaud baring his sword and turning on the aristocrats with obvious joy. 

It is over quickly. In the end, Aramis comes closer and shakes Grimaud's hand. "France thanks you," he says, his face earnest, and Grimaud smirks. Here are words he never thought he'd hear. "I'll go to Athos," he answers, which makes Aramis nod. 

Inside the remote little house, Athos has had a bath, a good dinner, and has dozed off again. He wakes up when he hears a horse coming closer, sitting up as Grimaud steps in. Lucien closes the door and walks right up to him, hand around the back of his head to get a good look at him. Athos looks better, and Grimaud’s relief is obvious on his face. 

He smiles, reaching up to touch Grimaud's hand. "Is all well?" he asks, quietly.

"Paris is safe," Grimaud states with just that bit of wryness. 

"Good," Athos answers, relieved too. The plan was risky, but if it means the Regency is safe, it was worth it in the end. 

"So are you,” Grimaud adds." That matters more to him, he admits. "No more sparring," he decides.

"The sparring did no harm," Athos corrects, his eyes soft. "It was the pig blood that spurred the infection." He can tell from the way Grimaud is looking at him that they’ll never spar again with real swords, though. Leaning close, Grimaud presses their foreheads together. He's dirty and tired, but the relief outweighs all of that.

"Are you unharmed?" Athos inquires, giving Grimaud a soft kiss and helping him remove his pauldron, carefully making room for him on the bed.

"Just a few bruises," Grimaud says. Nothing to worry about. He shrugs off his doublet and sets it  aside. "The monarchy will save some gold now, with fewer aristocrats."

Athos arches an eyebrow at him, though he didn't expect Grimaud to shed any tears for them. "Perhaps their gold can go to people who truly need it," he points out, helping Grimaud out of his shirt and running his fingers down his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin. Grimaud smells of gunpowder, sweat and mud, and Athos kisses his shoulder.

_ Perhaps _ , Grimaud thinks. Still, he doesn't trust it. He wonders if the Queen will even call for him now that all this is done; that the dirty work is complete. When he has his boots off he lies back, urging Athos down with him. "I have done my duty," he murmurs, wonder plain to hear in his voice. 

"And more," Athos agrees, lying down and pulling Grimaud close, one hand stroking up his back gently. He smiles at the look on Grimaud's face. "Is that so strange to you?"

"Never had a duty before," Grimaud replies, darkly amused. So, yes, very strange. He looks at Athos, drinking him in. Athos is all right. That matters above all, even France. 

"You did well, for a beginner," Athos teases, stroking his fingers along Grimaud's scruffy jaw. It makes Lucien snort. He has done quite a lot, hasn’t he? Mostly things he's already good at: killing and undermining, but it worked in the favor of France this time, it seems. He kisses Athos's temple. "Is there anyone we need to tell so that I don't have people coming after my head?"

"I'll make a speech at the Garrison as we return tomorrow," Athos answers, steadily. "Let everybody know of the scheme we used to save the city." He closes his eyes, nuzzling Grimaud's jaw. "And at the Palace, too, when the Queen summons me."

Grimaud nods, trusting Athos to know what to do. "You should rest," he tells him, kissing along his cheek.

"So should you," Athos answers, turning his head to meet Grimaud's lips with his own. He won't deepen the kiss though, stroking his fingers through Grimaud's hair instead, relaxing.

They sleep. 

  
  
  
  



	27. Pillow Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Are we to stay in bed for the rest of the day, then?" Athos teases.
> 
> "Yes." Grimaud's absolutely certain answer makes Athos laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Is that so?" he teases, slipping his fingers into Grimaud's hair "What if I have plans? Matters to attend to?"
> 
> "The captain of the Musketeers is going to be out of commission today," Grimaud says with a shrug, reaching back for him.
> 
> "Says who?" Athos answers, arching his eyebrows. 
> 
> "Says me, liaison to the Queen," Grimaud tells him smugly, and he leans in for a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long, it's been... a month  
> hope you enjoy <3

It is as Athos predicted. 

They ride back to Paris the next day, Grimaud going to check on the allies he still has and Athos returning to the Garrison. He gives a rousing speech to the Musketeers, explaining the ruse they used to take down the Queen’s enemies, hinting at Grimaud’s involvement without mentioning him by name. 

In the afternoon, Athos sends word to Grimaud he is being summoned to the castle. 

It is odd to answer a royal summon but Grimaud does it all the same, using the narrow door that leads into the gardens and then the servants’s corridors. The Queen is there to greet him when he steps in, taking his hand and holding it tightly. Hers are warm and small. "Thank you," she whispers. "For keeping France - and my son - safe, Monsieur Grimaud. You are a true hero."

Ducking his head, Grimaud shakes it. No, he's not.

"You are," she reminds him, expression and voice gentle. "You have my eternal thanks." And a satchel of coins, of course. "May I still rely on you, should I need to?"

Oddly enough, Grimaud doesn't have the compulsion to say no. Such is the power of this woman, he thinks, almost grudgingly. So he nods, bowing his head. "Yes, your majesty."

"I'm so glad," she tells him, as Aramis comes in wearing his Ministerial garb. He smiles to Grimaud. "Thank you," he says, with his own sincerity.

How remarkable, Grimaud thinks, looking between them both. Two seemingly sincere people with great power. Perhaps France is indeed finally in good hands.

As the door opens again, it is the King who runs in this time. “Monsieur Grimaud," he exclaims, coming up to pat at Grimaud's legs. "Have you brought me a toy?"

Arching a brow, Grimaud looks down at him. "Was I supposed to?" he asks, and there is fondness in his voice should one dig for it.

"People always bring me presents," the boy answers, matter-of-factly. Aramis and the Queen look on in amusement, though the Queen does start to say, "Louis - "

But Grimaud has this. He crouches down, asking the child, “ do you remember what we spoke of, how not everyone gets presents every day?"

The boy nods, his mouth pressed into a line.

"Do you get many gifts?" Grimaud may be overstepping, but this is important. Aramis rests a hand on Anne's arm, willing to see where this is going.

The boy nods again. "Many things."

"Do you even play with all the toys you get?"

The boy shakes his head.

"Perhaps you can share them. With those who don't get presents."

Young Louis looks to his mother who smiles a little, even if her eyes are damp. "Perhaps we can share, yes?" 

The boy nods, and Grimaud gives him a small smile. 

***

Athos is summoned to the Castle later in the day and he smiles when he meets Aramis there, looking dapper in his Minister jacket and suit.

"And here he is,” Aramis says, squeezing his shoulder. “Alive and well. Have you roused yourself from the dead, victorious and content?"

"I had help," Athos points out, clasping Aramis's shoulder in a friendly way. He grins a little, arching his eyebrows. "The people seemed pleased," he adds, dryly.

"Of course they are, as am I. Come see the Queen.” They walk along the corridor and Aramis smiles to him. “You know Grimaud was here, earlier. He’s convinced the King to give away most of his new toys. Such is Monsieur Grimaud's influence," Aramis muses, sounding both amused and touched. 

That makes Athos's eyebrows arch. "How so?" he inquires, though he thinks he knows. He remembers Grimaud telling Louis about children who were a lot less privileged than him, while they were in hiding.

"The boy asked Grimaud if he’d brought him a toy, and Grimaud took the opportunity." Aramis has to appreciate Grimaud's message, though he of course wishes to give his son all that there is to have. "It was quite impressive, really."

Athos hums, smiling. "The boy took a liking to him while they were hiding together," he says, amused. "Grimaud told him about children who are far less lucky than he is, and I think the lesson stuck."

"I think it did, too," Aramis answers with that wistfulness that comes from being so close to his son without being able to acknowledge it. "So, it seems France is safe. The Queen wishes to thank you," he adds. "Shall we?"

Nodding, Athos follows Aramis to where the Queen is waiting. He bows his head, respectfully. "Your majesty."

"Athos," the Queen greets with a warm smile, coming to stand close. "I understand you were very ill. I am so glad to see you looking well."

He bows his head again in silent confirmation. "I owe my life to Aramis's knowledge and care, once more," he answers, smiling back.

Taking a moment to send Aramis a warm look, the Queen turns to Athos. "And France is safer for all of us today, thanks in part to you."

"Thanks to the people's Musketeers," Athos corrects, smiling. "And your Majesty's wisdom." He's not being a sycophant, he does think that. "Are there any other pressing matters to investigate?" He inquires, seriously. He would like to rest but he won't, if the Queen needs him.

"I do hope that at this moment," the Queen says with quiet earnestness, "we will have a brief respite, if not a longer time of peace. We are nearly at peace with Spain, so then, perhaps, we can focus our attention at home."

"That is my hope too," Athos answers, just as earnestly. "And there is much to be done here." He won't ask what the Queen means to do about the war with Spain, but trusts that she seems more than willing to settle it. Between Aramis and the Queen, surely something can be done.

"Do rest and continue to recover, Athos” the Queen tells him, warmly. “You are much cherished by France."

Athos bows, feeling relieved though be does not show it. "Thank you, your Majesty," he answers, quiet but heartfelt. He will clasp Aramis's arm on the way and then step out of the room, headed for the stables.

When he gets back to the Garrison, the door to his rooms is unlocked. Inside, Grimaud stands in his braies and trousers, wiping a flannel over his damp hair. He’s just finished bathing and he turns, the corner of his mouth twitching in a smile.

It’s a nice sight to come home to, Athos thinks, leaning against the wall once he's closed the door and taking a bite of the apple he purloined from the kitchens. He smiles back, his eyes fond.

Tossing the flannel towards the table, Grimaud walks closer. Without his boots, he's a little shorter and he peers up at Athos before reaching for his clothes. He needs to look at Athos’s wound. Athos sets his apple aside to help remove his doublet, letting Grimaud undress him as he wants. 

It takes some time but they manage to discard each part of Athos’s uniform, setting it aside piece by piece. When Athos is unclothed from the waist up, Grimaud hands him the apple back and takes a look at the wound. He touches the skin around it carefully, seeing that it is healing quite well. 

"How is it?" Athos asks, taking another bite from his apple and lifting his arm slowly, trying to see for himself.

"Looks better. Even with the fine stitches, it'll leave a mark," Grimaud says. He can joke now because Athos will be all right.

"How dreadful," Athos answers, wryly. 

"How was your visit with the Queen?" Grimaud asks, still helping Athos undress. 

It's odd to talk about the Queen while Grimaud is divesting him of his trousers, but Athos makes a valiant effort. "It went well. She is pleased about our success. I am to rest, apparently, before we start working on bettering life in Paris. How was yours?"

"I have a bag full of gold coins," Grimaud says, though he will give them away soon enough. "And I saw the young king again, who asked if I brought him a gift."

With a smile, he lets Athos's trousers fall before he takes to a knee to help him off with his boots.

"Aramis told me," Athos answers, smiling wider. "There is to be an event in which the King bestows the toys he does not play with to the children of Paris, it seems." Athos's eyes are undeniably proud, and fond. Grimaud's impact is much more important already than he even dared to dream. He steps out of his boots carefully, watching Grimaud.

"Perhaps I shall go to get a toy," Grimaud jokes, looking pleased that he had such an influence on the King. He sets the boots aside, then lets Athos lean on his shoulder so he can step out of his trousers.

"You might not qualify anymore," Athos points out with a smile, resting both hands on Grimaud's shoulders. "Grantaire would, if you want to bring him," he adds, softly. He stands there in just his braies and tugs Grimaud back up, meeting his eyes, his chin tilted up a little as he watches him.

The boy would be quite pleased with a toy, wouldn't he? Grimaud hadn't thought of that. "Are you saying I am fully grown?" he asks, still darkly amused. He stays in his trousers and closes the distance, sliding his hands up Athos's chest.

"I'm afraid so," Athos answers, stroking his palms up Grimaud's arms and resting them on his shoulders, feeling the warmth coming from his clean skin. He leans into the touch, tilting his head to give Grimaud a very light kiss, then another, then another, almost playfully.

Grimaud kisses back, hands coming to rest on Athos's hips, soon pressing for more, for deeper kisses. He pushes Athos against the door and undoes the tie of his underwear, reaching inside. It makes Athos hum and pull him closer by the hips, sucking on Lucien’s lower lip. 

"Lie down, Musketeer," Grimaud says, stepping back. He takes off his trousers and they can get into bed together, taking their time to touch and please, mindful of Athos’s scar.

It is quite a while before they roll back onto the sheets, catching their breaths, their naked shoulders touching. Grimaud shifts so he can look at his Musketeer, one hand coming to rest on his chest. "What are we to do now?" he asks, darkly amused by his life at the moment. "We have saved France."

Stroking his fingers through Grimaud's clean hair, Athos smiles up to him. "Rest, for now," he answers, amused by the tone of Grimaud's voice. "And then do it all over again in a while, most likely," he adds, arching an eyebrow. Such is the life of a Musketeer.

"What, save France?" Grimaud asks, very nearly grinning at the absurdity of this idea.

"That's what you have signed up for, I'm afraid," Athos teases, leaning up to give Grimaud another kiss. Grimaud kisses back before he stands up, moving to Athos's small food store and helping himself to some bread and a rind of cheese. Athos tells him to get wine too and they can make a meal from it, eating and drinking in companionable silence. 

Athos knows Grimaud is not much for small talk and he doesn’t press, setting aside the empty bottle before he lies back down, stretching his legs on the bed. It feels odd, almost decadent, to lounge there naked with so little planned. It makes Athos grin. "Are we to stay in bed for the rest of the day, then?" he teases.

"Yes," Grimaud tells him, wryly. That’s almost aristocratic of them, but Lucien will allow it for today.

Grimaud's absolutely certain answer makes Athos laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Is that so?" he teases, leaning into his lover's touch. "What if I have plans? Matters to attend to?" he inquires, slipping his fingers through Grimaud's hair again .

"The captain of the Musketeers is going to be out of commission today," Grimaud says with a shrug. He strokes his hand between Athos’s thighs, making him shiver, and moves just enough to grab the jar of oil from the side table. 

"Says who?" Athos answers, arching his eyebrows. He hums at the touch, wrapping a leg around Grimaud's hips to give him the space to do what he wants. There is something filthy about doing this in broad daylight, the noise of the Garrison filtering through the window.

"Says me, liaison to the Queen." Grimaud smirks. The filthiness is part of the appeal of this act, he knows. He likes it. He presses one finger inside Athos's body and Athos chuckles, tilting his chin up, his eyes falling half-shut. "Aren't you pompous now," he teases, cupping his own cock, his body easily adapting to the feeling.

One finger becomes two but Grimaud is in no hurry; he'll spend time doing this, whispering, "don't stroke yourself."

Athos arches an eyebrow up at Grimaud. With nothing hanging over their heads and the whole afternoon free, he's in the mood to be playful. "Or what?" he challenges wryly, wrapping his fingers around his cock though he doesn't stroke. What Grimaud is doing feels good, anticipation simmering hotly in the pit of his stomach.

Grimaud arches an eyebrow in return. Does the Musketeer want to test the limits? He stops moving his hand and waits. "Or you don't spill at all," he says, casually.

He gets a grin in return, crooked. Athos is in the mood to be a little insolent and see how ruthless the payback will be. He moves his hand around his cock, just once, squeezing himself.

That draws Grimaud short for a second before he hums, low and dark. Athos has only disobeyed him in bed once, and they both enjoyed the retribution that followed very much. If the Musketeer wants to play this game again, Grimaud will play to win. 

He slips his fingers out, giving Athos a stern look, snorting when the Musketeer looks entirely unrepentant. Tilting his head to the side, he considers before reaching to the drawer next to Athos’s bed, taking out the glass cock he bought at the auction a while ago and never got to use to torment Athos with. 

Athos's eyebrows arch on his forehead as he considers it. He'd almost forgotten about Grimaud's tasteless present, not truly thinking they would ever get around to using it. There is a faint flush to his cheeks at the idea because it's filthy, perhaps even filthier than letting Grimaud fuck him. At the same time, he can’t help but wonder if it'll feel good. It seems to him that perhaps it will be too cold, or too unyielding to be pleasurable, though he trusts Grimaud not to hurt him that way. He tilts his chin up, a silent challenge.

Well, well, well, Grimaud thinks. He’d half expected Athos to protest and notes with amusement that the Musketeer seems willing enough, and ashamed of it. He reaches for the slick, pouring it liberally over the glass. Then he leans above Athos's body again, trailing the tip of the glass cock up the inside of his lover's thigh, moving it toward his hole.

It makes Athos shudder but he refuses to back down, holding Grimaud's eyes. He brought this upon himself, wanted it even, and he won't be cowed so easily. The glass feels cold against his heated skin and he jerks a little, his fingers tightening on Grimaud's shoulder. He swallows dryly, keeping his breathing slow and even, watching Grimaud and using his steady gaze to ground himself. Grimaud doesn’t look away and although Athos knows he will push him as far as he can, he also knows Grimaud won’t hurt him beyond what he wants. 

Nudging Athos’s thighs wider, Grimaud gives him no warning before he starts twisting the glass cock, cold and ungiving, up inside him. Athos's lips part at the feeling and he makes a tight noise at the back of his throat. It doesn't hurt exactly but it feels very cold and foreign, his body unsure how to respond to this. His own cock is still hard against his stomach still, and his ass clenches around the intrusion, making him gasp.

"Hands above your head," Grimaud said, upnodding at them. "On the headboard." Athos obeys easily this time, reaching for the headboard with both hands and gripping it, his back arching when Grimaud pushes the cool glass deeper inside him. It feels less good than Grimaud's cock but it's enough to send a thrill right through him, his body clenching tightly.

That tightness is palpable as Grimaud works the glass deeper. It's long, longer than a hand's length. Halfway in he slows but doesn't stop, keeping a close eye on Athos's expression, on his erection. He can feel his own cock twitch to hardness against his thigh and ignores it, focusing on his lover instead.

Athos’s fingers are white on the headboard and he hisses, his head tipped back. The thing inside him seems to be never-ending, feeling uncomfortably big and deep. He bites on his lower lip, his face flushed. There is a strain to this, one that’s almost unpleasant, and yet it does nothing to dim his arousal, his cock jerking against his stomach despite his discomfort, dripping a little.

That is what Grimaud is looking for and he smirks, starting to move the glass cock inside Athos slowly, deliberately, pulling it nearly free and then back in, a little deeper each time.

Unable to hold back a moan this time, Athos squirms under Grimaud. The glass is growing warmer now, stretching him wider than he's used to and exerting growing pressure on that sensitive place inside of him. He throws his head back, his eyes finally falling shut, lips open over quiet pants.

Good. Good, Musketeer. With Athos's eyes closed, Grimaud gazes at him with unmitigated warmth and adoration; he is so lovely like this, so inviting. His own breath catches in his throat, cock straining. Athos is truly beautiful. Grimaud keeps moving the glass, steady, unending.

Though he is silent, it's clear what this does to Athos. His breathing is coming in harsh, ragged pants and his body is growing taut with tension, gripping the headboard tightly, his legs spreading a little wider as if to make room. He rocks his hips up, looking for some sort of friction on his cock, shivering because there is none. It takes a while but Grimaud brings him to the brink like this, Athos's whole body arching into it.

Except when he reaches that delicate point, the pinnacle of want, Grimaud leans in, kissing up Athos's chest, smelling sweat and desire and musk, and stops moving the glass inside him. 

Athos groans, unable to bite it down. His hips buck, trying to get more of that pressure inside him, relenting as he understands what Grimaud is doing. He knew comeuppance was coming and yet it makes him shudder and shake, opening his eyes to watch Lucien through his lashes. He lifts his head and Grimaud gazes back at him, looking entirely too smug. 

"What do you want now, Musketeer?" he asks, fingers just barely glancing along the underside of Athos's erection.

"Does it matter?" Athos shoots back. There is some rebellion in him still, even now that he's so hard his cock is beginning to ache, his whole body yearning for release. His hips jerk when Grimaud touches him again and he gasps, shivering.

"It always matters," Grimaud says with a quiet certainty that Athos will not be able to deny. "But if you choose not to answer the question .... " The toy will stay where it is, and Grimaud’s fingers will not go anywhere near Athos's cock.

Athos lets go of the headboard and reaches for Grimaud instead, pulling him closer, one hand on his shoulder and one hand in his hair, tugging. "Then I want you to fuck me," he whispers, harshly. He doesn't think he's ever said that to Grimaud, not so plainly, but he's too turned on to care now, his eyes dark and blazing with heat.

He is stunning like this and Grimaud has to stare, even as he turns his head, urging Athos to let go of his hair. Then he twists the toy free from Athos's body and pushes his knees apart, leaning between them and fucking in hard and fast, the gesture sharp against Athos's hips.

There is something obscene about how easily Grimaud can just press all the way in until their hips slap together harshly and it makes Athos gasp, his body tensing. It's good, so good after being teased for so long, and Athos's legs wrap around Grimaud's back to urge him to move and give him more.

With a hand gripping the headboard, Grimaud pistons his hips against Athos's. The feeling is incredible. He has to bite into his own lower lip to slow down when he feels Athos near that edge again, easing off and starting to tease, the head of his cock just barely inside.

Athos makes a noise that is very nearly a whine, hissed between clenched teeth. His fingers dig in Grimaud's shoulders and he pants through it, through being so close and not going over the edge just yet. He opens his eyes to look at Grimaud, sweat pearling high on his forehead, his body trembling minutely under Grimaud's. He won't beg just yet but he’s helpless with need, shivering as Grimaud moves inside him shallowly, taunting him.

Grimaud himself is shaking but he’s got control, and he is truly determined to teach Athos not to defy him again. Or, at least, to expect retribution if he does. He smirks just a bit at the look on Athos’s face, saying nothing but hissing in a breath through his teeth, watching Athos unravel, his hips rocking.

It's a battle of wills and Athos knows he's going to lose but he'll be damned if he gives in before there is no other choice for him. He pants and tilts his chin up, staring back at Grimaud above him, his teeth gritted against the need to come. He waits until Grimaud pushes in a little deeper and then clenches around him, as tight as he can manage, groaning at the feeling.

It sends a shudder down Grimaud's spine which he lets Athos see; the tight clutch of Athos’s body around him almost too good to resist. Still he forces himself to keep the same rhythm, not moving any less or more, just looking back.

There isn't much more Athos can do against Grimaud's steel control and he lets his eyes fall shut for a second, tilting his head back to bare his throat in a primal display of submission. He's yielding now, as he knew he would from the beginning, his grip on Grimaud’s shoulders going gentle, accepting. 

With victory in sight Grimaud, much like the animal he is never far from being, bends over, nose against the skin between Athos's chin and throat. He can smell him and he digs his teeth in, suckling the blood to the surface. Athos knows it will leave a mark of unquestioned ownership and he presses up against it, groaning, his hands going into Grimaud’s hair again.

When he is satisfied with the marking Grimaud starts to move again, slowly at first, getting them both used to it anew, and then hard enough to jarr the bed with his movements, Athos bucking under him. "Come for me," he whispers and Athos gasps, unable to hold back. His climax crashes over him, finally tumbling him over the edge, and the pleasure of it is intense enough to make his world go grey at the corners, his whole body going taut with it. It seems endless, wave after wave rolling over him, his skin tingling.

With Athos clenching so very tight around him and making a mess of both of them, Grimaud can’t help but follow; his body jerks with it and he holds on to the headboard, his eyes falling shut. The pleasure sends sparks against the backs of his eyelids. He stops moving after a while, his climax relaxing his body entirely. 

They move together after a while, disentangling so they can lie side by side, Athos’s hands stroking down Grimaud’s back slowly. He rolls closer to brush his mouth against Lucien’s shoulder, not exactly kissing the warm skin, just feeling it. After a while he can feel Grimaud go limp against him, his breathing coming slow and regular. 

It makes him grin to see Lucien allow himself a nap in the middle of the Garrison in broad daylight, his harsh features softened to something akin to peacefulness. Grimaud is handsome like this and Athos gently slips a lock of hair from his forehead before settling down too. He suspects Lucien won’t sleep long, so he takes advantage of it to nap too.

And indeed, Grimaud soon jerks awake suddenly, as he always does. He doesn't go to dress, though. He just turns over, letting out a slow breath. "Is this what your life as Captain is like when you aren't saving our country?" he asks, bemused. Athos puts his arms around his shoulders, giving him a kiss. 

"No," he answers, honestly. "There is usually more drinking and carousing." And less, well,  _ this _ . Athos was never really in the habit of bedding anyone just for fun.

His answer seems to amuse Grimaud and he arches his eyebrows. "I do not imagine you carousing, Musketeer," he says, though of course he can imagine Athos drinking quite heavily.

"I don't," Athos confirms. "Aramis and Porthos do, and they take me with them." He's the voice of reason, usually, provided he is not too drunk.

"Even if Aramis is the father of the king?" In this, Grimaud is curious and nothing more. Any secrets are safe with him.

“Less so once he became a father, I think,” Athos allows, thoughtfully. "But it was not easy to bear for Aramis, all these years, to have to pretend the Dauphin was not his son. To see another raise his child, and the woman he loved shunned because of him," he says, quietly. "When his secret was almost revealed, he decided to become a monk and spent four years in a monastery, raising orphans and treating the injured."

Grimaud nods, slowly. He can respect that much, at least. “And now that he is Minister?”

"Now that he can be near the woman he loves and his son every day, I do not think he will throw it away." Athos grins, a little. "Though he might still come to revel with us, have a drink and sing a bawdy song before he goes back to the palace." Grimaud takes a few seconds to consider, before he asks another question. "Did the dead King know that his son was not his own?"

"I believe he suspected it," Athos answers, honestly. "He shunned the Queen and requested Aramis to come with him on his pilgrimage, do you recall? When Feron tried to assassinate him." 

Such intrigue and drama, Grimaud thinks. Exhausting. He rolls to his back, propping himself up on the headboard. "Are all your comrades so ... extravagant with their feelings?"

"Hardly," Athos answers, chuckling. He looks up to Grimaud, his eyes fond. "Porthos is very steady in his affections. And d'Artagnan only ever loved Constance." He pauses. "One ill-advised affair aside, that is."

Grimaud merely arches a brow in question. He never used to traffic in gossip, not unless such conversations could be exploited. Now he enjoys it because he likes to hear Athos speak, likes the low purr that enters his voice every time Grimaud strokes his fingers through his hair.

Athos doesn’t mind telling him. "Anne," he says, quietly, and then adds, "my wife, not the queen. He did not know who she was." Grimaud’s eyebrows furrow as he works this out. d'Artagnan - the young one, Grimaud has figured out - slept with Athos's wife. And they are still friends? Well, well, well.

He resumes his stroking, clearly contemplating. "Does that knowledge bother you?" he asks, curious.

"It did, before.” Athos sounds thoughtful, but there is no bitterness to his words. “But d'Artagnan is a brother to me and I would not hold this against him considering he was tricked into it." He smiles, touching Grimaud's scruffy jaw. "Are all my stories very strange to you?"

"Your entire life is strange to me," Grimaud teases. "Though I imagine my life is strange to you, too."

"Perhaps in part," Athos agrees, leaning in for a light kiss. He's well on his way to knowing Grimaud to his core, to piercing through all the shadows and smoke he has cultivated around himself and see him bare, as he is.

Grimaud, in turn, is learning Athos inside and out. He never thought he would be so close to an aristocrat, in truth, though one could argue Athos -with his unwise marriage, his abandoned estate and his wild career change later in life- is no typical aristocrat. He rolls to his back, beckoning Athos closer. "Kiss me, Musketeer."

Athos does and the world outside their door can stay there a while longer, until it's time to save France again.

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a collaboration between two friends! It's completed already, we just need to edit/proofread before we post.  
> I plan to post twice a week, if we can keep up.  
> Enjoy :)


End file.
